THE 
MAKING  OF  A 

NEWSPAPERMAN 


t 


i 
mia 


1  SAMUEL  G.BLYTHE 


Mdattyit=Bi&s:u  . 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

•THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Making  of  a 
Newspaper  Man 


By 

SAMUEL  G.  BLYTHE 


PHILADELPHIA 

HENRY  ALTEMUS       OMPANY 


COPYEIGHT,    1912,    BY 

HowAED  E.  Altemus 


The    Making  of  a   Newspaper   Man 


CHAPTER  I 

THERE  was  to  be  a  murder  trial  at  the  little 
county-seat  where  I  was  bom  and  where 
I  lived  as  a  boy.  I  was  just  eighteen 
at  the  time.  Murder  trials  were  infrequent  in 
that  county  and  this  one  attracted  wide  local  at- 
tention. The  city  papers  were  preparing  to  give 
some  space  to  it  and  the  county  papers  had 
printed  columns  about  it. 

It  was  the  first  murder  trial  I  remember  much 
about,  though  when  I  was  a  small  boy  they 
hanged  a  man  in  the  jailyard,  which  enlivening 
and  novel  occurrence  had  set  all  the  small  boys 
in  the  village  to  making  gallows  and  hanging 
cats  and  dogs,  and  even  fieldmice  and  rabbits. 

3 


718094 


4  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

Once  we  built  a  big  gallows  and  tried  to  hang  a 
calf,  but  that  didn^t  work  very  well — and  the 
man  who  owned  the  calf  caused  some  acute  dis- 
comfort to  the  amateur  executioners.  Until  he 
caught  me,  I  never  realized  how  much  power 
there  is  concealed  in  the  human  leg  and  foot 
when  the  foot  is  shod  with  a  cowhide  boot.  Still, 
murder  trials  and  murders  were  always  a  fruit- 
ful topic  of  boyish  conversation.  Instead  of 
using  a  trap  for  the  condemned  man  to  fall 
through  to  eternity,  the  local  plan  was  to  jerk 
him  into  the  hereafter  by  means  of  a  big  weight 
fastened  to  a  rope  running  over  the  top  of  the 
gallows  and  released  by  a  spring.  The  weight 
was  an  iron  affair  and  the  tradition  was  that 
it  weighed  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  pounds. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  kept  in  the  cellar  of  the  court- 
house ;  and  as  the  frequent  sheriffs  always  had 
boys  in  their  families  the  cellar  of  the  court- 
house was  a  favorite  place  of  resort.  Conse- 
quently, when  conversation  languished,  the 
weight  was  always  there  to  furnish  inspiration 
for  speculation  as  to  whom  it  would  be  used  on 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  5 

next  and  the  coordinated  and  congenial  theme 
of  murders  and  murderers. 

Of  course,  having  arrived  at  the  mature  age 
of  eighteen,  I  had  long  since  ceased  foregather- 
ing in  the  court-house  cellar  and  trying  to  lift 
the  weight  and  discussing  murders  and  the  last 
hanging;  but  when  this  case  was  moved  for 
trial,  and  the  farmers  began  to  come  in,  I  was 
as  much  interested  as  I  had  been  in  the  hanging 
of  the  unfortunate  years  before,  and  so  were 
all  my  companions  and  friends.  Our  nearest 
city  was  thirty  miles  away  and  the  daily  papers 
came  in  on  the  morning  and  evening  trains. 
They  devoted  one  page  to  the  news  of  the 
country  through  which  they  circulated  and  had 
correspondents  in  each  village  of  importance. 
The  correspondent  for  the  biggest  of  the  morn- 
ing papers  from  our  town  was  a  young  lawyer, 
a  warm  friend  of  mine.  It  so  happened  he  had 
other  business  to  attend  to  at  the  time  of  the 
trial  and  he  asked  me  to  report  it  for  the  city 
paper. 

My  father  was  editor  of  one  of  the  two  weekly 


6  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

papers  in  our  town,  and  naturally  I  had  fussed 
about  the  printing  office  a  good  bit.  Moreover, 
I  always  received  better  marks  for  compositions 
than  the  other  boys,  and  my  rhetoric  teacher 
had  prophesied  a  great  future  for  me.  Also,  I 
had  secretly  determined  to  be  a  newspaper  man, 
although  my  father  objected  strenuously,  say- 
ing the  business  was  no  good.  So,  when  the 
regular  correspondent  asked  me  to  do  his  work, 
I  jumped  eagerly  at  the  chance.  The  arrange- 
ment was  that  I  was  to  have  the  pay  for  the 
work  that  he  would  have  received  had  he  done 
it.  The  emolument  for  the  literature  of  coun- 
try correspondence  in  that  particular  city  news- 
paper office  was  four  dollars  a  column,  which 
seemed  a  princely  compensation,  for  I  was  to 
have  a  front  seat  at  the  reporters'  table,  was 
to  hear  the  whole  trial;  and  likely  as  not  there 
would  be  some  city  reporters  there  with  whom 
I  might  get  acquainted  and  thus  find  an  oppor- 
tunity to  discuss  my  ambition  to  be  a  regular 
reporter  myself.  I  would  have  worked  for 
nothing. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  7 

The  trial  began  on  Monday,  and  I  made  a 
longhand  running  report  of  the  proceedings, 
got  it  in  the  afternoon  mail  and  telegraphed  a 
short,  skeletonized  summaiy  of  what  happened 
after  the  mail  closed.  I  have  filed  several  mil- 
lion words  of  telegraphic  dispatches  to  news- 
papers since  that  day,  twenty-five  years  ago, 
from  all  parts  of  the  world  and  on  all  sorts  of 
big  stories;  but  I  have  never  filed  a  dispatch 
that  seemed  quite  as  important  and  sensational 
as  that.  I  was  all  puffed  up  when  I  handed  it 
to  the  telegraph  operator,  who  had  known  me 
since  I  was  a  baby,  and  she  was  greatly  inter- 
ested and  promised  to  send  it  right  away.  Like- 
wise, I  have  dealt  with  and  known  hundreds  of 
telegraph  and  cable  operators  in  my  time,  have 
fought  with  them,  coaxed  them,  cursed  them, 
bought  them,  cultivated  them,  loafed  with  them ; 
but  that  dear  lady  who  sent  my  first  newspaper 
dispatch,  while  I  hung  around  nervously  waiting 
to  see  her  finish  it,  remains  in  my  mind  as  the 
highest  type  of  the  exponents  of  the  business 
which  I  was  to  be  so  interested  in  in  later  life. 


8  THE  MAKINa  OF  A 

Telegraph  operators  have  befriended  me, 
have  balked  me,  have  put  my  stuff  ahead  and 
given  me  highly  useful  information  to  my  great 
credit  in  the  home  office,  and  have  held  back 
my  dispatches  to  my  great  discredit  in  the  same 
important  place;  they  have  endangered  their 
jobs  to  pull  me  through  and  have  cost  me  a 
job  or  two  by  utter  cussedness.  Some  of  the 
best  fellows  I  ever  knew  were  in  the  telegraph 
business,  and  are  yet;  but  never  a  one  of  them 
did  so  much  for  me,  I  still  think,  as  the  lady 
who  sent  my  first  two  hundred  words  and  told 
me  it  was  quite  intelligent. 

I  was  at  the  post-office  next  morning  an  hour 
before  the  papers  came,  and  when  they  finally 
did  arrive  I  grabbed  the  first  one  I  could  get. 
I  was  much  chagrined  to  find  that  news  of  Con- 
gress and  the  Legislature  and  a  prize  fight  were 
prominently  displayed  on  that  first  page.  There 
wasn  ^t  a  line  about  the  murder  trial.  I  hurried 
in  to  consult  the  postmaster  and  asked  him  if 
he  was  sure  my  letter  got  away.  He  was  sure 
and  suggested  it  was  possible  the  murder-trial 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  9 

story  might  be  on  some  other  page  of  the  paper 
than  the  first.  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  me  that  my  dispatch  could 
possibly  be  any  other  place  than  on  the  first 
column  of  the  first  page.  I  have  had  that  feel- 
ing a  good  many  times  since,  too. 

I  found  the  dispatch  on  page  three,  two  col- 
umns, with  a  four-line  head.  I  read  it  eagerly, 
lamenting  a  few  typographical  errors,  and  feel- 
ing much  discouraged  because  the  editors  had 
cut  out  half  a  column  or  so  of  the  very  best 
part — as  I  thought.  The  papers  came  in  at  nine 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  court  began  at  ten. 
I  spent  that  hour  swelling  around  on  Main 
Street,  feeling  quite  sure  everybody  had  read 
my  story,  and  thinking  perhaps  the  judge  and 
the  lawyers  would  say  something  about  it.  Be- 
sides, it  meant  almost  eight  dollars  in  money 
for  me — a  sum  I  had  never  thought  any  person 
could  make  for  a  day's  work.  Also,  it  clinched 
me  for  the  newspaper  business.  I  was  a  born 
journalist.  There  was  no  doubt  of  that.  And 
it  was  a  cinch.    Eight  dollars  for  a  few  hours' 


10  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

work  that  was  really  play !  Nobody  in  the  village 
made  so  much  working  for  wages. 

I  worked  my  head  off  that  week  and  sent  in 
columns  that  were  printed  and  columns  that 
were  not.  In  the  evenings  I  went  to  the  hotel 
and  talked  to  the  city  reporters  who  were  on 
the  story.  Much  to  my  surprise,  they  didn't 
think  newspaper  work  was  a  noble  profession, 
highly  paid,  dignified  and  supremely  important. 
They  said  reporting  was  ''darned  hard  work," 
that  the  pay  was  small  and  the  hours  long.  Also, 
they  said — all  of  them — their  city  editors  were 
individually  and  collectively  the  meanest  men 
on  earth,  and  it  was  a  poor  game  all  round. 
Later,  I  entertained  the  same  ideas,  especially 
about  the  city  editors,  and  had  the  same  ideas 
entertained,  quite  extensively,  about  me  when  I 
became  a  city  editor  myself.  I  made  almost 
sixty  dollars  that  week — more  than  I  was  to 
make  in  many  a  weary  week  afterward — and 
had  my  story  on  the  first  page  the  day  the  man 
on  trial  went  on  the  stand. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  11 


CHAPTER  II 

On  Saturday  a  man  who  was  employed  on  a 
Sunday  paper  in  the  city  where  my  paper  was 
published — I  had  begun  to  talk  of  it  as  "my" 
paper — came  to  get  a  story  for  Sunday  morn- 
ing. I  didn't  know  it  then,  but  that  man  was 
to  cross  and  crisscross  my  life  for  several  years 
— principally  cross.  He  sat  next  to  me  at  the 
table,  and  asked  me  if  I  was  the  *'yap"  who 
had  been  doing  the  trial  for  the  "Gazette."  I 
said  I  was.  "Pretty  good  for  a  rube !"  he  com- 
mented. I  had  asked  the  other  city  reporters 
about  the  chance  for  getting  a  job  as  a  regular 
on  the  staff  of  some  paper  in  the  city.  They 
told  me  jobs  were  scarce,  that  the  penurious 
proprietors  always  filled  up  with  a  cheap  jay 
from  some  college  when  a  high-priced  man  was 
fired,  and  advised  me,  unanimously  and  pro- 
fanely, to  stick  to  the  village  or  go  on  a  farm. 


12  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

It  was  a  rotten  business,  anyhow,  they  said— 
and  nothing,  positively  nothing,  in  it. 

Still,  the  man  from  the  Sunday  paper  seemed 
to  have  different  ideas.  He  was  older.  He  told 
me  he  had  been  in  the  business  for  fifteen  years 
and  was  writing  a  book  about  it — a  guide  for 
aspirants.  Of  the  book,  more  later ;  but  I  asked 
him  if  there  was  any  chance  to  get  a  job.  He 
told  me  confidentially  there  was  going  to  be  a 
shakeup  on  the  paper  I  was  reporting  the  trial 
for;  that  he  was  going  back  over  there  as  city 
editor,  and  that  it  wouldn't  hurt  any  to  go  down 
and  apply.  He  said  he  would  put  in  a  good 
word  for  me. 

I  could  hardly  wait  for  that  trial  to  finish, 
although  I  was  making  six  and  eight  dollars  a 
day  out  of  it.  On  the  day  after  I  sent  in  my  last 
batch  of  copy  I  took  the  morning  train  to  the 
city  and  hurried  up  to  the  newspaper  office.  I 
had  often  stood  outside  that  office,  which  shel- 
tered the  biggest  paper  in  the  city  and  one  of 
the  biggest  in  the  state,  and  wondered  if  ever 
I  should  get  a  chance  to  work  on  it  and  learn 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  13 

the  business  there.  I  asked  a  man  in  the  count- 
ing room  where  the  editor's  office  was.  He 
looked  at  me  curiously  and  told  me  it  was  up 
another  flight.  I  climbed  up,  witli  my  heart 
beating  like  a  pneumatic  riveter. 

There  was  a  door  with  frosted  glass  in  it  at 
the  top  of  the  dark  stairs,  and  on  the  door  the 
magic  words  ''Editorial  Booms"  were  painted. 
This  was  about  half  past  eight  in  the  morning. 
I  knocked  on  the  door.  Nobody  came.  Then 
I  pushed  it  open  and  found  myself  in  a  long 
room  with  the  floor  littered  with  torn  news- 
papers, proofsheets,  copy  paper  and  all  the 
numerous  evidences  of  work  the  night  before. 
Nobody  was  there. 

I  noticed  a  little  coop  in  one  corner  of  the 
room  that  held  a  desk  and  chair,  and  at  the 
far  end  three  other  rooms.  The  doors  to  these 
rooms  were  labeled:  ''Managing  Editor," 
"Editor"  and  "Editorial  Writers."  The  long 
room  was  crowded  with  old  desks,  and  along 
one  side  there  was  a  table  built  against  the  wall, 
on  which  there  were  heaps  of  the  local  papers. 


14  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

That  table  was  where  we  used  to  sleep  when 
we  were  stuck  for  the  long  watch.  I  thought 
it  a  particularly  untidy  and  uninviting  place 
then.  Six  months  later  it  often  seemed  to  me 
the  softest  bed  in  the  city.  The  door  of  the 
little  coop  in  the  comer  of  the  big  room  was 
labeled  ''City  Editor.'^  I  knew  dimly  he  was 
the  man  I  wanted  to  see. 

I  sat  down  and  waited.  Presently  a  boy  came 
in  and  made  a  pretense  of  sweeping  up  the  floor. 
He  was  not  an  attractive  boy  and  not  much 
younger  than  myself.  He  looked  at  the  littered 
room  with  supreme  disgust. 

''These  dubs  must  *a'  bin  brought  up  in  a 
barn/*  he  said,  "the  way  they  throw  stuff 
around.** 

"What  dubsr*  I  ventured. 

"These  reporters,'*  he  answered.  "They 
gimme  a  pain!    Whatchu  want?*' 

"I  want  to  see  the  editor,*'  I  answered  with 
such  dignity  as  I  could  command. 

He  stopped  sweeping.  "Somethin'  wrong  in 
d'  pape?**  he  asked  in  a  more  respectful  tone. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  15 

**I  suppose  some  of  them  dubs  has  bin  gittin' 
the  wrong  dope." 

*'No,"  I  replied.    ''I  want  to  get  a  position 
on  the  staff." 

''Nothin'  doin^"  he  asserted.    ''They's  firin' 
instid  of  hirin'." 

Then  he  went  on  sweeping  and  paid  no  further 
attention  to  me.  I  sat  there  for  nearly  three 
hours  and  not  a  person  came  into  that  room  ex- 
cept another  boy  with  a  big  bunch  of  news- 
papers. He  threw  them  on  a  desk  and  walked 
out.  It  hadn't  occurred  to  me  that  the  paper 
I  wanted  to  work  for  was  a  morning  paper  and 
that  the  men  worked  at  night  and  slept  in  the 
daytime.  That  occurred  to  me  a  good  many 
times  later,  but  it  didn't  dawn  on  me  then.  I 
fancied  it  must  be  a  snap  to  work  there.  They 
didn't  go  on  until  afternoon  apparently;  and, 
as  everybody  quit  at  six  o'clock  where  I  came 
from,  that  would  mean  only  a  short  day.  If  I 
could  only  get  a  job  I  knew  I  should  have  an 
easy  time. 

About  noon  the  door  was  pushed  violently 


16  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

open  and  a  short  man  with  a  gray  mustache 
came  in.  He  was  not  much  more  than  five  feet 
tall,  but  he  had  a  massive  head  and  one  of  the 
most  intelligent  faces  I  have  ever  seen.  He 
glanced  at  me  and  went  into  the  room  marked 
' '  Editor. ' '  I  heard  him  moving  about  the  room, 
and  heard  him  also  shout:  *'0h,  boy!^'  No 
boy  came.  He  shouted  again.  Then  he  said, 
''Damn  those  boys!  They  are  getting  worse 
all  the  time ! ' '  and  cam-e  out  into  the  room  where 
I  was  sitting.  He  looked  round,  took  a  copy  of 
the  morning  paper  from  a  desk  and  went  back. 
If  he  noticed  me  at  all  I  wasn't  aware  of  it. 

Nobody  came  in  for  another  half  hour.  I 
could  hear  the  man  in  the  other  room  swinging 
back  and  forth  in  his  chair,  could  hear  news- 
papers rustling,  hear  him  thump  the  desk  a 
couple  of  times  and  knew  from  other  sounds 
lie  was  clipping  things  out  of  papers.  Then  I 
decided  I  might  just  as  well  talk  to  liim  as  the 
city  editor,  who  probably  didn't  get  down  for 
an  hour  or  two;  and  I  went  timidly  into  his 
office.     He  was  tilted  away  back  in  his  chair, 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  17 

reading  a  paper  and  chewing  vigorously  on 
something  I  learned  afterward  was  paper,  for 
I  saw  him  tear  strips  of  it  and  put  them  into 
his  mouth. 

"Are  you  the  editor?"  I  asked. 

*'Yes,'^  he  said,  peering  at  me  over  the  top 
of  the  paper.    ''What  do  you  want? '^ 

'*I  want  a  job,"  I  blurted. 

''What  kind  of  a  job?" 

"I  want  to  be  a  reporter." 

He  had  dropped  the  paper  and  was  looking 
at  me  not  unkindly. 

"Have  you  ever  had  any  experience?" 

"No,  sir — that  is,  not  much.  I  have  written 
some  for  my  father's  paper  and  I  reported  that 
murder  trial  for  you." 

He  was  interested. 

"Are  you  the  man  who  reported  that  murder 
trial?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,"  half  to  himself,  "that  wasn't  so  bad 
— not  so  bad.     What's  your  name?" 

I  told  him  and  he  scribbled  it  down.     "All 

2 — Newspaper  Man. 


18  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

right,"  he  said,  ]oicking  up  his  paper  and  smil- 
ing at  me  pleasantly,  "I'll  speak  to  the  city 
editor  about  it.  You  will  hear  from  him.  Good 
morning. ' ' 

I  suppose  I  walked  out  of  that  room,  but  I 
don't  know.  It  seemed  to  me  I  floated  out  and 
down  those  dingy  stairs.  I  was  certain  I  should 
get  a  place — and  I  caromed  round  the  city  in  a 
dream  until  it  came  traintime. 

When  I  got  home  I  told  my  father  I  thought 
I  could  get  a  place  on  the  local  staff  of  the 
** Gazette."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "All 
right,"  he  said;  "but  it's  a  poor  business.'* 
For  the  next  two  days  I  was  the  first  person  at 
the  post-ofSce  at  mailtime  and  the  last  to  leave. 
Then  came  a  letter  in  the  morning  mail  on  the 
third  day.  It  was  from  the  citv  editor  and  said 
the  editor  had  spoken  to  him  of  me ;  that  there 
was  a  vacancy  on  the  local  staff  I  could  have; 
that  if  I  wanted  it  I  was  to  report  to  him  a 
week  from  the  following  Sunday  morning.  The 
salary,  he  added,  would  be  ten  dollars  a 
week. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  19 

I  dashed  down  the  street  to  my  father 's  office. 
"I've  got  it,"  I  shouted  to  him  as  I  burst  into 
his  office. 

**Got  what?''  he  asked. 

**Got  a  job  on  the  'Gazette.'  " 

**God  help  you!"  he  said,  and  turned  to  his 
writing. 


20  THE   MAKING   OF  A 


CHAPTER  ni 

Money  is  never  particularly  plentiful  in  the 
family  of  a  country  editor  and  our  family  was 
no  exception.  However,  my  friend,  the  young 
lawyer  who  had  let  me  sub  for  him  on  the  mur- 
der trial  and  who  thus  had  really  secured  my 
job  for  me,  advanced  me  some  out  of  his  scanty 
store  on  the  check  he  would  get  for  me  at  the 
end  of  the  month ;  and  at  two  o  'clock  on  Sunday 
week — exactly  on  the  minute — I  walked  again 
into  that  big  room.  I  had  been  hanging  round 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  for  an  hour  for  fear  I 
might  be  late. 

There  was  a  man  in  the  little  coop  in  the 
corner,  writing  in  a  black-covered  book.  Six 
or  seven  young  men  were  sitting  in  the  long 
room,  smoking  and  talking  about  a  scoop  the 
opposition  paper  had  that  morning.  They  paid 
no  attention  to  me.    I  stood  for  a  minute  and 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  21 

listened  to  them.  From  what  I  could  gather  it 
seemed  certain  there  would  be  a  hot  time  when 
the  managing  editor  came  in.  Presently  the 
man  in  the  coop  looked  up  and  saw  me. 

**Do  you  want  to  see  me?"  he  asked. 

**I  want  to  see  the  city  editor." 

*  *  Go  ahead, ' '  he  said.  ' '  I  am  that  unfortunate 
person."  I  guessed  he  was  thinking  about  the 
scoop,  too. 

I  told  him  my  name  and  showed  him  his  let- 
ter to  me. 

''How  do?"  he  said,  sticking  out  his  hand. 
''I'll  have  an  assignment  for  you  presently." 

Then  he  took  me  out  into  the  big  room  and 
introduced  me  to  the  men  there.  They  all 
greeted  me  pleasantly — and  one  man,  older  than 
the  rest,  with  much  cordiality.  I  didn't  know 
why  then,  but  I  soon  learned.  My  advent  re- 
lieved him  of  the  necessity  of  writing  the  local 
notices — the  most  despised  job  on  the  paper. 

"Here's  the  trouble !"  sang  out  the  city  editor, 
and  the  men  all  flocked  round  and  looked  at  the 
black-covered  book  in  which  he   was  writing 


22  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

when  I  first  came  in.  That  black-covered  book 
was  the  assignment  book,  and  opposite  each 
man's  name  were  his  assignments  for  the  day. 
I  waited  until  the  men  had  copied  off  their  tasks 
and  then  looked  for  mine.  I  was  to  see  the 
colonel  of  a  local  regiment  that  had  returned 
from  camp  that  morning  and  get  a  story,  and 
I  was  to  report  a  sermon  at  night.  Also,  op- 
posite my  name  was  ''local  notices." 

I  noticed  that  one  man  was  assigned  to 
do  ''police,"  another  "railroads,"  another 
"hotels,"  and  so  on.  I  soon  learned  there  were 
regular  men  on  these  assignments,  as  on  "courts 
and  city  hall"  on  weekdays,  and  "politicians" 
and  "theatres,"  and  so  on;  and  I  wondered 
when  I  should  get  a  chance  at  "theatres"  or 
"police,"  feeling  myself  well  qualified  to  cope 
with  either  or  both  right  off  the  bat.  However, 
it  wasn't  long  until  I  found  out  it  would  be 
some  time  before  I  got  theatres  or  police,  or 
anything  but  the  dub  assignments.  No  matter 
what  I  thought  of  my  own  abilities,  the  city 
editor  positively  refused  to  consider  me  except 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  23 

as  a  dub,  who  must  be  taught — and  I  am  quite 
sure  he  was  right,  looking  back  at  it  now. 

The  reporters  interested  me.  Aside  from  the 
city  reporters  who  were  up  in  my  village  on  the 
murder  trial,  they  were  the  first  real  reporters 
I  had  ever  seen.  They  were  young,  energetic, 
free-and-easy  chaps,  with  a  most  amazing — to 
me — knowledge  of  all  that  was  going  on  in  the 
city,  with  the  most  contemptuous  opinion  of  the 
big-wigs  of  the  place  of  whom  I  had  read  for 
years  and  whom  I  imagined  to  be  most  remark- 
able citizens,  free  of  opinion,  full  of  youth  and 
youthful  cynicism,  calling  big  politicians  and 
city  officials  and  merchants  and  others  of  the 
prominent  by  their  first  names,  cocksure  of  every 
statement  and  bored  by  things  that  were  new 
and  marvelous  to  me.  They  all  smoked  and 
most  of  them  drank  a  little.  They  knew  the 
night  life  as  well  as  the  day  life.  They  spoke 
familiarly  with  policemen  and  firemen.  They 
knew  the  cafe-keepers  and  all  the  local  charac- 
ters of  whom  I  had  been  reading — knew  them 
intimately,  it  seemed — and  disapproved  of  most 


24  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

of  them.  I  wondered  if  I  should  ever  get  to 
the  dizzy  height  of  calling  the  chief  of  police 
*' Jim"  and  referring  to  the  mayor  as  "Cornie." 

What  an  underpaid,  happy-go-lucky,  careless 
and,  in  the  case  of  several,  brilliant  crowd  it 
was !  Not  one  of  them  had  a  cent,  or  expected 
to  have  one,  except  on  payday.  All  lived  from 
hand  to  mouth.  All  worked  fourteen,  sixteen, 
seventeen  hours  a  day  at  the  most  grueling  work, 
reporting  on  a  paper  in  a  small  city  where  many 
yawning  columns  must  be  filled  each  day  whether 
there  is  anything  going  on  or  not,  and  all  loyal 
to  the  core  to  that  paper,  fighting  its  battles, 
working  endlessly  to  put  a  scoop  over  on  the 
opposition  morning  paper,  laboring  until  four 
o^clock  in  the  morning  for  from  ten  to  fifteen 
dollars  a  week,  doing  anything  that  came  along 
from  a  state  convention  to  a  church  wedding. 

Everything  was  grist  that  came  to  that  mill 
and  those  boys  were  the  millers.  They  are  scat- 
tered now  to  all  parts  of  the  earth.  Some  have 
stuck  to  the  newspaper  business  and  some  have 
left  it;  but  they  were  a  brave  crowd  of  young- 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  25 

sters  then  and  they  took  me  up  and  made  me 
one  of  them,  and  taught  me  the  rudiments  of 
my  business.  I  worked  with  and  against  the 
best  reporters  in  this  country  and  abroad  for 
many  years,  but  I  never  found  a  crowd  like 
that — my  first  colleagues,  with  whom  I  lived  and 
borrowed  and  played  and  worked  when  I  was 
both  a  cub  and  a  dub — good  friends,  good  re- 
porters, good  fellows! 

I  went  up  to  see  the  colonel  of  the  returned 
regiment.  Much  to  my  surprise,  he  did  not  seem 
awed  when  I  told  him  so  distinguished  a  journ- 
alist as  a  reporter  for  the  "Gazette"  had 
vouchsafed  to  call  on  him,  but  asked  rather 
shortly,  "Well,  what  do  you  want?"  I  told 
him  and  he  gave  me  a  long  story,  detailing  the 
splendid  achievements  of  his  command  and  not 
omitting  his  own  great  part  in  the  success  of 
the  affair.  I  hurried  back  to  the  office  and  wrote 
until  my  arm  ached.  When  I  turned  in  my  copy 
the  city  editor  looked  at  the  bale  of  it  and  said : 
"Gosh!  What  did  he  do?  Kill  somebody?  I 
only  wanted  a  couple  of  sticks." 


26  THE    MAKING    OF   A 

*'You  wait,"  I  thought,  ''until  you  see  Jiow 
important  that  article  is  and  then  you'll  change 
your  opinion."  However,  he  didn't  wait.  With 
a  sick  heart,  I  saw  him  throw  page  after  page 
of  it  on  the  floor.  Next  morning  they  printed 
about  three  inches  of  my  article  and  not  much 
of  it  resembled  what  I  had  written.  That  was 
a  jolt,  but  I  had  a  harder  one.  The  sermon  I 
was  to  report  was  by  a  returned  missionary 
bishop.  I  argued  that,  inasmuch  as  they  wanted 
a  report  at  all,  they  must  want  a  good  one,  and 
I  labored  hard  making  notes  of  the  sermon  and 
in  transcribing  them  at  the  office.  Then  I  got 
my  second  lesson.  Sermons  are  covered  only 
because  nothing  else  much  goes  on  in  a  small 
city  on  Sunday — or  were  in  my  cub  days;  and 
if  any  live  news  comes  in  the  sermons  are  cut 
down.  Some  live  news  came  in  that  night — a 
police  case  that  involved  somebody  well  known ; 
and  next  morning  my  report  of  the  sermon  was 
reduced  about  ninety  per  cent,  when  it  appeared 
in  type. 

I  didn't  get  to  my  room  until  four  o'clock  that 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  27 

morning,  but  I  got  up  at  seven  and  went  out  and 
bought  a  copy  of  the  paper,  I  turned  eagerly 
to  the  local  pages  and  found  my  two  little  items. 
I  was  the  proudest  boy  in  the  United  States. 
To  be  sure  they  had  not  appreciated  my  articles 
at  their  full  worth;  but  they  printed  some  of 
them  right  in  the  paper,  in  the  local  sections, 
and  I  was  a  regular  reporter  on  a  regular  paper ! 
I  wouldn't  have  traded  jobs  with  Charles  A. 
Dana !  I  thought  everybody  was  pointing  me 
out  as  the  brilliant  young  journalist  of  the  ''Ga- 
zette" as  I  walked  down  to  the  office,  where, 
by  the  way,  I  arrived  three  hours  ahead  of  time 
and  occupied  my  leisure  in  reading  and  reread- 
ing my  contributions  to  the  sum  of  the  world's 
wisdom  that  morning.  I  have  them  yet,  pasted 
in  a  scrapbook — two  gems  of  English  literature ! 
Nothing  I  have  ever  read  or  written  compares 
with  those  two  items — the  one  about  the  regi- 
ment and  the  other  about  the  missionary  bishoiD. 


28  THE   MAKING   OF  A 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  soon  discovered  that  all  the  ideas  I  had 
about  the  ease  and  dignity  of  the  work  of  a  re- 
porter on  a  daily  paper  in  a  small  city  were 
entirely  erroneous.  We  reported  at  the  oflSce  at 
one  o  'clock  and  took  our  afternoon  assignments. 
These  we  were  expected  to  have  covered  and 
the  copy  in  before  six.  We  reported  again  at 
seven-thirty  and  got  our  night  assignments,  and 
the  copy  for  those  was  to  be  in  by  eleven  or 
twelve.  Then  the  proofs  began  coming  and  no- 
body could  go  until  the  last  local  proof  was  read 
and  revised.  This  was  generally  about  one  or 
half  past.  Then  the  long- watch  man  stayed  until 
four,  catching  that  assignment  two  or  three 
times  a  week  and  watching  the  police  station 
and  the  fire  alarm  for  any  late  crime  or  fire 
that  might  occur. 

Expense  bills  were  carefully  scrutinized.    No 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  29 

reporter  was  supposed  to  take  a  street  car  if 
his  assigninent  was  within  a  mile  of  the  office 
unless  there  was  a  great  rush,  and  all  street 
cars  stopped  at  midnight.  Thus,  if  there  was  a 
late  fire  the  reporter  who  had  it  was  expected 
to  run  his  mile  and  run  back  in  time  to  catch 
the  last  form.  If  the  fire  was  over  a  mile  away, 
in  a  dangerous  district,  the  city  editor  would 
allow  a  cab,  but  not  too  often,  for  the  old  man 
downstairs  thought  cabs  and  reporters  not  com- 
patible with  the  economical  conduct  of  his  great 
organ  of  public  opinion  and  instruction. 

Naturally  the  new  man  on  the  staff  was  given 
the  drudgery.  He  had  to  hold  copy  on  proof 
and  read  the  revises.  He  was  stuck  with  the 
long  watch  oftener  than  anybody  else.  There 
were  seven  reporters  and  each  man  had  a  day 
off,  thus  leaving  six  to  get  all  the  news  in  a  city 
of  almost  a  hundred  thousand  people,  and,  as 
the  paper  was  a  big  one,  to  write  enough  stuff 
to  fill  twenty-five  or  thirty  columns — and  some- 
times more.  I  frequently  had  fourteen  or  fifteen 
assignments  in  a  day — ^not  big  ones,  but  four- 


30  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

teen  or  fifteen  places  that  had  to  be  visited, 
whether  they  produced  copy  or  not. 

Then  there  were  the  ' '  local  notices. ' '  How  we 
hated  those!  They  were  advertisements,  in 
news-paragraph  style,  that  ran  from  five  to  fif- 
teen lines  each  and  were  inserted  on  the  local 
pages.  Each  day  had  its  quota  and  tabs  telling 
what  was  to  be  written  each  day  hung  on  hooks 
in  the  city  editor's  room.  They  were  for  shoe 
stores,  drug  stores,  all  kinds  of  stores ;  and  the 
advertising  man  guaranteed  they  would  be 
''bright  and  snappy."  Think  of  working  all 
the  afternoon  and  writing  two  columns  of  stuff, 
and  then  being  obliged  to  go  to  the  hook,  get 
the  tabs  and  write  ''bright  and  snappy"  items 
about  Beegin's  shoes  and  Boogin's  bread,  run- 
ning from  five  to  fifteen  lines!  Those  "local 
notices"  gave  me  my  first  pause  about  the  de- 
sirability of  the  newspaper  business  as  a  career. 

Ten  dollars  a  week,  with  no  other  revenue,  is 
not  a  princely  income.  Still,  under  the  coaching 
of  my  brethren,  who  were  living  on  it,  I  soon 
ilearned  how  to  stretch  that  ten  dollars  to  cover 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  31 

seven  days.  There  was  a  good  place  where  they 
sold  you  for  three  dollars  a  ticket  which  entitled 
you  to  twenty-one  meals.  Inasmuch  as  we  all 
slept  late,  we  had  an  arrangement  whereby  the 
landlady  left  a  luncheon  on  the  table  at  midnight 
in  lieu  of  breakfast.  That  settled  the  eating 
problem.  By  bunking  together,  two  men  could 
get  a  pretty  fair  room  in  those  days  for  four 
dollars,  or  two  dollars  each.  That  used  up  half 
of  the  ten,  but  it  provided  the  sterner  neces- 
saries. There  was  a  friendly  tailor  who  would 
make  you  a  suit  of  clothes  for  twenty-six  dollars 
— a  dollar  down  and  a  dollar  a  week.  I  never 
knew  how  he  did  it;  but  that  tailor  had  things 
calculated  to  such  a  nicety  that  at  the  end  of 
the  twenty-six  weeks  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  buy  a  new  suit  or  have  the  old  one  drop 
olf  you  in  tatters — and  we  were  always  in  debt 
to  him.  Taking  out  the  tailor's  dollar — which 
we  did  not  always  do,  by  the  way — we  had  four 
dollars  left  for  riotous  living,  shoes,  laundry, 
tobacco  and  everything  else.  Of  course  some 
of  the  boys  got  twelve  dollars  and  one  or  two 


32  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

fifteen.  The  city  editor  was  a  plutocrat — ^he  got 
twenty-five;  and  the  assistant  city  editor,  who 
was  a  reporter  every  day  except  the  city  editor's 
day  off,  got  seventeen. 

I  remember  the  day  I  drew  my  first  week's 
salary.  The  assistant  city  editor  was  at  the 
cashier's  window  with  me.  The  cashier,  who 
was  a  good  fellow  and  would  advance  a  dollar 
or  two  in  case  of  dire  necessity,  shoved  our  en- 
velopes out  face  down.  They  were  small  manila 
envelopes,  with  the  name  of  the  recipient  writ- 
ten across  the  middle  and  the  sum  within  in 
figures  on  the  upper  left-hand  corner.  I  took 
my  ten  with  a  fluttering  heart.  It  was  my  first 
salary  as  a  regular  reporter.  It  meant,  too,  that 
I  had  made  good  enough  to  last  a  week,  at  any 
rate,  and  probably  could  worry  through  another 
week.  The  assistant  city  editor  ostentatiously 
turned  his  envelope  over  and  showed  me  that 
magnificent  ''$17.00"  on  the  corner.  It  was 
wealth  beyond  compare.  ''My  boy,"  he  said 
in  a  very  patronizing  manner,  "if  you  ever 
get   so   you    can    pull    down    that    much    you 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  33 

will  be   a  real  newspaper  man."     I  thought 
so  too. 

The  city  editor  earned  his  twenty-five  dollars. 
In  addition  to  giving  out  the  assignments  and 
being  responsible  for  the  local,  he  was  super- 
visor of  the  sporting  pages  and  the  theatrical 
news,  read  all  the  copy — there  were  no  such  per- 
sons as  copy-readers  then  in  the  small  cities — 
wrote  the  headlines,  made  up  his  pages  and  took 
the  kicks  from  the  managing  editor  when  the 
opposition  scooped  us.  He  was  a  busy  young 
person,  with  a  sour  view  of  life  and  an  inor- 
dinate desire  for  something  that  was  exclusive, 
by  which  he  meant  something  the  other  morning 
paper  did  not  have.  Likewise,  he  was  always 
embroiled  in  bitter  warfare  with  the  foreman 
of  the  composing  room,  who  was  constantly  try- 
ing to  leave  out  some  of  his  local,  and  as  con- 
stantly at  odds  with  the  reporters,  each  of  whom 
fought  always  to  get  space  for  his  particular 
story  or  stories  and  gloomed  darkly  and 
talked  of  the  decadence  of  the  game  when 
the  city  editor  told  him  to  make  a  quarter  of 

3—Nevispapcr  Man. 


34  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

a  column   of  the  yarn  he  hoped  to   write   a 
column  about. 

Everybody  was  eager  and  enthusiastic.  All 
were  bound  up  in  their  paper.  They  growled 
and  talked  privately  of  the  penuriousness  of  the 
proprietor,  and  the  cussedness  of  the  city  editor, 
and  the  malignant  managing  editor,  and  the 
f eeble-mindedness  of  the  editor ;  but  they  were 
ready  and  willing  to  fight  when  anybody  else 
intimated  their  paper  was  not  the  greatest  in 
the  state.  They  worked  incredibly  hard  for  pit- 
tances, walking  miles  and  miles  in  snow  and 
rain  and  heat,  and  toiling  long  hours  through 
the  night ;  but  their  complaints  were  all  among 
themselves.  To  outsiders  they  were  a  gay  and 
debonair  bunch  of  young  chaps,  engaged  in 
getting  out  the  best  paper  of  them  all;  and 
they  took  as  much  joy  in  '* putting  one  over'*  on 
the  opposition  paper  as  they  would  in  getting  a 
thousand-dollar  legacy.  It  was  a  good  atmos- 
phere to  begin  in.  Likewise,  it  gave  an  ex- 
perience of  all  sides  of  the  business;  for  there 
wasn't  a  man  in  the  lot  who  couldn't  write  heads, 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  35 

read  proof,  read  and  edit  telegraph,  make  up, 
write  advertising,  write  special  articles  and  do 
any  story  passably  well,  no  matter  whether  it 
was  about  a  prize  fight  or  a  church  convention. 

The  routine  assignments  were  divided  under 
broad  general  heads.  There  was  a  police  man, 
a  court  man,  a  railroad  man — and  so  on.  My 
first  regular  assignment  was  ''railroads,  under- 
takers and  morgue.  '^  That  meant  that  I  was  ex- 
pected, in  addition  to  any  other  assignments  the 
city  editor  might  wish  me  to  cover,  to  visit  all 
the  railroad  offices ;  go  to  the  station  when  the 
big  trains  were  due ;  go  to  the  big  undertakers 
and  copy  the  death  certificates ;  visit  the  morgue 
twice  a  day  to  see  if  any  bodies  were  there  and 
where  they  came  from.  It  meant,  also,  a  walk 
of  six  or  seven  miles  each  afternoon,  for  no  re- 
porter could  use  a  street  car,  except  at  his  own 
expense,  on  a  routine  assignment. 

The  city  wasn't  much  of  a  railroad  centre ;  so 
my  duties  consisted  in  visiting  the  railroad 
offices,  where  the  agents  invariably  tried  to  hand 
out  advertisements  about  excursions  and  such 


36  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

in  the  guise  of  news — and  rarely  had  any  real 
news — and  visiting  the  stations  and  talking  to 
the  station  master  and  dispatchers  and  other 
officials.  These  visits  usually  resulted  in  the  ex- 
citing information  that  ''Mr.  McGuffin's  special 
car,  Lotus,  went  east  on  Number  Seventeen  last 
night,"  though  every  time  the  brakeman  or  en- 
gineers or  anybody  else  gave  an  excursion  or 
a  picnic  I  was  expected  to  boom  it  for  days. 
Then,  after  the  little  grist  of  local  railroad 
items — occasionally  there  was  a  good  story — ^I 
read  the  exchanges  and  clipped  a  dozen  or  so 
railroad  items  of  general  interest,  which  were 
pasted  up  and  followed  the  local  news  under  a 
headline  like  ''Clicks  from  the  Eails,"  or  some 
other  nifty  caption. 

Unless  the  death  certificate  was  of  some  im- 
portant person,  when  it  was  necessary  to  hunt 
up  facts  for  an  obituary,  the  news  secured  at 
the  undertaker 's  shop  was  written  in  stereotyped 
form,  giving  the  name,  age,  time  of  death  and 
place  of  funeral  of  the  deceased.  These  were 
run  under  a  standing  headline,  **The  Dead.'* 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  37 

There  were  about  twenty  undertakers  who  must 
be  visited  each  day,  in  widely  separated  sections 
of  the  city.  If  you  took  a  chance  and  skipped 
one  it  was  always  certain  the  opposition  rail- 
road, undertakers-and-morgue  man  would  visit 
that  identical  place  that  day  and  get  a  prom- 
inent death  good  for  a  spread  obituary.  After 
I  had  been  on  this  run  for  a  week  I  nearly  lost 
my  job  by  writing  an  obituary  of  some  esteemed 
person  and  leaving  out  his  name.  It  got  into 
the  paper  that  way  and  the  scholarly  managing 
editor  threw  fits  and  profanity  all  over  the 
office. 


38  THE   MAKING   OF   A 


CHAPTER  V 

It  was  before  the  days  of  typewriters  or  lino- 
type machines  and  my  writing  was  bad.  How 
I  envied  one  of  onr  reporters  who  wrote  a  per- 
fect hand  and  turned  in  copper-plate  copy !  He 
was  a  great  favorite  with  the  printers  and  used 
to  go  up  to  the  composing  room  and  swap  stories 
with  them;  while,  whenever  I  went  through 
those  sacred  precincts,  the  printers  used  to  rap 
with  their  composing  sticks  on  their  cases,  an 
emphatic  and  disconcerting  sign  of  typograph- 
ical disapproval.  One  day  the  foreman  reported 
in  the  local  room  that  Shorty  Anderson,  a 
printer,  had  thrown  a  ''take"  of  my  copy  back 
on  his  desk,  contemptuously  saying:  *'I  can't 
set  that  junk!  It  ain't  copy.  It's  music — and 
I  ain't  got  no  music  characters  in  my  case." 
And  another  time  the  chapel  held  a  meeting 
to  protest  against  my  copy;    but  here  Shorty 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  39 

Anderson  was  my  friend.  I  had  supplied  him 
with  a  convivial  Latin  motto  for  the  saloon  of 
a  friend  of  his,  and  he  came  to  the  rescue,  urging 
that  the  young  fellow  be  given  a  chance.  So  I 
wasn't  discharged. 

Presently  a  new  man  came  on  and  the  city 
editor  passed  the  railroads,  undertakers  and 
morgue  and  the  local  notices  to  him.  I  was  given 
police  and  soon  was  on  terms  of  easy  familiarity 
with  the  chief — whom  I  called  ' '  Jim ' ' — the  cap- 
tains, the  lieutenants  and  the  detectives.  We 
discussed  crime  learnedly — but  I  soon  learned 
that  the  idea  of  the  police  was  to  print  nothing 
about  what  happened  in  a  criminal  way  until 
they  had  "investigated";  and  as  I  broke  this 
rule  several  times  they  came  to  look  on  me  with 
suspicion,  and  it  was  necessary  to  get  another 
reporter  to  do  "police."  I  had  become  reason- 
ably expert  at  proofreading  and  could  write 
my  own  headlines.  Our  biggest  head,  except  on 
a  most  sensational  story,  was  what  we  called 
a  four-head — a  line,  a  pyramid,  another  line  and 
a  twenty-word  pyramid  to  close  it  up.     The 


40  THE   MAKING   OF,  K 

first  four-head  of  which  I  was  really  proud  was 
over  the  story  of  the  death  of  a  telegraph  line- 
man. His  name  was  Finnegan  and  he  fell  off  a 
pole.  I  remember  the  first  two  parts  of  the 
head  and  I  thought  it  looked  fine  in  print : 

FATAL  FOE  FINNEGAN 


Feaeful  Fall  of  Fully 
Fifty-Five  Feet! 

The  long  watch  lasted  until  four  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  which  was  the  time  the  presses 
started.  All  the  rest  left  about  two  o'clock,  un- 
less there  was  a  penny-ante  game  going,  which 
there  usually  was  after  the  proofs  were  all  done. 
The  long-watch  man  was  expected  to  go  over 
to  the  central  police  station  twice  and  see  if 
anything  had  happened.  There  was  a  fire-alarm 
gong  in  the  office.  On  snowy  or  rainy  nights  we 
usually  took  a  chance  and  called  up  the  police 
station  by  telephone.  On  nights  when  we  were 
very  tired,  as  we  usually  were,  the  long-watch! 
man  stretched  out  on  the  file  table  along  the 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  41 

side  of  the  room  and  went  to  sleep,  relying  on 
the  friendly  night  man  at  the  station  to  call  up 
if  anything  happened.  One  night  when  I  had 
the  long  watch  I  went  to  sleep  on  the  files  and 
went  home  at  half -past  four  thinking  all  was 
well.  It  so  happened  that  shortly  after  our  own 
presses  started  that  morning  one  of  our  press- 
men fell  off  the  press  and  broke  his  neck.  The 
full  story  appeared  in  the  opposition  paper,  but 
our  paper  had  never  a  word — and  the  accident 
happened  in  our  own  building!  I  never  quite 
understood  how  I  held  on  to  my  job  after  that — 
but  I  did.  However,  I  heard  a  few  things  about 
myself  from  the  managing  editor. 

Naturally,  in  so  small  a  city,  there  was  not 
enough  purely  local  news  to  fill  the  many  col- 
umns set  aside  for  local  in  our  paper,  and  each 
week  each  reporter  was  ordered  to  write  two  or 
three  ** specials,"  which  were  stories  of  a  semi- 
news  nature  or  on  any  interesting  topic  or  thing 
that  had  come  under  his  attention.  If  they  could 
be  made  humorous  so  much  the  better.  This 
was  great  training  for  young  writers.    We  pro- 


42  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

duced  all  sorts  of  yarns  and  I  got  to  be  pretty 
good  at  it,  having  a  fertile  imagination  and  being 
new  to  the  city,  where  odd  things  the  others 
passed  by  attracted  me. 

Also,  I  worked  off  some  of  the  compositions 
the  rhetoric  teacher  had  commended.  We  had 
one  star  man  at  this  sort  of  thing,  although 
most  of  the  specials  turned  in  and  printed  were 
very  fair  as  newspaper  copy,  and  some  were 
brilliant.  I  remember  my  pride  in  this  star 
man,  as  the  youngest  member  of  the  staif ,  when 
he  put  over  his  famous  **  Mystery  of  Lock  Sixty- 
Six"  series.  He  got  a  hand  and  arm  of  a  dead 
man  from  a  medical  student  he  knew  and 
chopped  off  several  fingers  and  cut  the  arm  in 
two  or  three  pieces.  Then  he  went  out  to  Lock 
Sixty-Six  on  the  canal  and  dropped  in  a  finger, 
shortly  afterward  discovering  said  finger  float- 
ing in  the  water.  He  came  back  and  wrote  a 
masterly  story  about  his  discovery.  He  specu- 
lated graphically  on  the  problems  of  where 
the  finger  came  from,  whose  finger  it  was  and 
why  the  police  had  not  reported   a  missing 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  43 

man.  The  police,  by  the  way,  pooh-poohed  the 
whole  story. 

Next  day  he  found  two  more  fingers  and 
whooped  it  up  again.  The  police  were  stirred. 
The  other  papers  took  it  up.  Next  day  he 
dropped  in  and  took  out  a  section  of  an  arm; 
and  when  his  third  story  appeared  the  entire 
police  department  was  running  round  in  circles 
and  the  people  were  excited.  I  can  see  him 
now,  writing  his  story,  smoking  an  old  cob  pipe, 
with  a  section  of  that  dead  arm  propped  up  on 
his  desk  before  him.  Then,  at  the  end,  he  ex- 
plained it  all  and  made  the  police  ridiculous. 

Once  a  circus  came  to  town  on  Sunday  to  show 
on  Monday.  On  Monday  morning  we  had  a 
sensational  story  about  the  escape  of  a  blood- 
sweating  behemoth  of  Holy  Writ,  telling  how 
this  ferocious  animal  had  broken  out  of  his 
cage  and  ravaged  the  countryside.  Most  of 
the  town  went  down  to  see  and  hunt  the  escaped 
beast  and  the  story  made  such  a  hit  with  the 
circus  proprietor  that  he  took  our  star  man 
and  made  a  press  agent  of  him.    Another  Sun- 


44  THE   MAKING   OF  'A 

day  night  the  striking  apparatus  of  a  big  clock 
in  a  church  steeple  became  disarranged  and  the 
bell  on  which  the  hours  were  struck  boomed  out 
at  irregular  intervals  all  night.  This  was 
enough  for  our  star  man.  He  sat  down  and 
wrote  a  thrilling  story  about  an  escaped  maniac 
who  had  climbed  up  in  that  steeple  and  was 
pounding  on  the  bell ;  and  when  the  paper  came 
out  next  morning  half  the  police  in  the  city 
marched  down  there  to  capture  the  madman. 

I  went  to  work  in  the  spring,  and  early  in 
the  fall  the  shakeup  my  friend  of  the  Sunday 
paper  had  predicted  came  along.  He  came  in 
as  city  editor.  His  first  effort  at  getting  in 
touch  with  the  staff  was  to  assign  each  member 
the  task  of  reading  the  book  on  journalism  he 
bad  written.  We  all  had  to  read  it  in  order 
to  learn  how  to  be  reporters,  though  we  con- 
sidered ourselves  about  as  good  a  bunch  of  re- 
porters as  the  country  boasted  outside  of  New 
York.  I  never  have  known  why,  but  that  man, 
who  helped  me  get  my  job,  took  a  great  ap- 
parent dislike  to  me  and  made  me  the  most  mis- 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  45 

erable  young  man  in  the  newspaper  business. 
He  loaded  impossible  work  on  me  and  hazed  me 
fiendishly. 

Finally  he  got  me.  One  night  at  midnight, 
after  the  cars  had  stopped  running,  when  there 
was  three  feet  of  soft  snow  on  the  ground  and 
the  snow  was  still  falling,  he  came  out  into  the 
local  room  and  said:  ^'I  am  sorry,  but  I  have 
overlooked  a  very  important  meeting  at  Number 
94  Yancey  Street.  It  must  be  covered  and  you 
will  have  to  go  and  get  it." 

Number  94  Yancey  Street  was  four  miles  from 
the  oflSce.  I  asked  if  I  might  have  a  cab  and 
he  refused.  I  started  out  about  midnight  and 
plowed  through  the  snow  for  those  four  miles, 
wet,  cold,  cursing  him  at  every  step.  I  didn't 
get  there  until  nearly  three  o'clock.  I  rapped 
on  the  door  of  the  house.  A  man  stuck  his  head 
out  of  the  window.  I  asked  him  for  the  details 
of  the  important  meeting. 

''What  meeting?"  he  asked. 

**The  meeting  about  the  new  railroad  that 
was  held  here  to-night." 


46  THE   MAKING   OF   A 


''Why,'*  said  the  man,  ''we  had  no  railroad 
meeting  here!'* 

''Wasn't  there  some  kind  of  a  meeting  I"  I 
persisted. 

"Not  that  I  know  of,"  he  said,  and  shut  the 
window.  As  I  turned  away,  burning  with  rage 
and  resolving  to  whip  that  city  editor  next  day 
if  I  went  to  jail  for  life,  the  man  opened  the 
window  and  said:  "Hi,  there,  kid!  I  forgot. 
We  did  have  a  small  progressive  euchre  party 
here  to-night,  but  I  don't  think  it  was  very 
important. ' ' 

I  started  back,  so  tired  I  could  hardly  walk. 
Just  then  the  snowplow  came  along  and  the 
good  chap  who  ran  it  saw  my  predicament 
and  let  me  ride  up  to  Main  Street  with  him 
on  it,  which  was,  after  all,  better  than  walk- 
ing. 

Next  day  I  went  down  prepared  to  club  the 
head  off  that  city  editor.  I  told  my  closest 
friend,  who  had  been  having  it  rubbed  into  him 
and  was  willing  to  help  out,  but  who  prudently 
suggested  we  wait  until  after  payday,  as  we 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  47 

might  need  some  money  to  go  to  some  other 
town. 

That  very  night,  about  one  o'clock,  a  fire 
alarm  came  in  from  the  lumber-yard  district. 
The  city  editor  rushed  out  and  ordered  the  short- 
watch  man  to  go.  Then  he  sent  the  long-watch 
man  and,  at  regular  two-minute  intervals,  fired 
out  everybody  else.  I  was  about  the  fifth  man 
out;  and  I  got  as  far  as  the  first  block  up  the 
street,  where  I  met  a  fire-lieutenant  I  knew,  who 
told  me  all  about  it.  I  came  back,  wrote  the 
story  and  turned  it  in.  Meantime  the  city  editor 
had  sent  out  my  chum,  who  went  up  to  the  fire, 
which  was  of  no  account,  got  the  story  and 
walked  back.    He  came  in  and  sat  down  to  write. 

*  *  What  are  you  doing  ? ' '  asked  the  city  editor. 

''Writing  this  fire,"  he  said. 

"Huh!"  he  sneered.  ''That  fire  story  has 
been  in  type  half  an  hour.  You  didn't  seem  able 
to  cover  it  in  any  decent  time  and  I  got  another 
account  of  it." 

"By  !"  shouted  my  chum.     "If  this 

is  journalism  working  here  under  this  man  I'll 


48  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

quit  now  and  go  and  pick  gravel  with  the  chick- 
ens." 

''So  will  I,"  I  said. 

That  night  we  sat  up  for  hours  deciding  what 
we  would  do.  We  determined  to  buy  a  daily 
paper  for  ourselves.  We  knew  where  there  was 
a  paper  for  sale  in  a  small  Western  city.  And 
we  bought  it.  I  was  not  yet  nineteen  and  he 
was  barely  twenty-one ;  but  we  bought  it.  Youth 
is  impetuous  and  we  were  young ! 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  49 


CHAPTER  VI 

I  had  been  a  reporter  for  eight  or  nine  months^ 
had  had  my  salary  raised  from  ten  to  twelve  dol- 
lars a  week  and  had  already  demonstrated  two 
things  to  my  superiors  when  my  partner  and  I 
bought  our  daily  newspaper. 

The  first  was  that  I  had  a  sort  of  talent 
for  making  friends  with  and  getting  the  confi- 
dence of  all  sorts  of  people,  from  the  highest 
to  the  lowest;  and  the  second  was  that  I  had 
a  sort  of  talent  also  for  seeing  the  odd  or  un- 
usual or  humorous  side  of  an  occurrence  and 
could  write  what  I  saw — rather  amateurishly, 
but  well  enough  to  bring  out  the  particular  thing 
that  interested  me.  In  other  words,  I  was  good 
— for  a  youngster — on  local  color  and  human 
interest.  Furthennore,  I  had  demonstrated  that 
I  hated  the  routine,  was  likely  to  rebel  under 
discipline,  had  all  the  cocksureness  of  youth, 

■# — Newspaper  Man. 


50  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

would  work  like  a  galley  slave  when  a  story  in- 
terested me;  but  would  slide  through  with  the 
least  possible  exertion  when  the  story  was  not 
to  my  liking,  and  that  generally  I  was  a  rather 
opinionated  and  bumptious  young  person. 

It  is  probable  I  was  a  good  deal  of  a  trial  to 
my  city  editors  and  to  the  managing  editor,  but 
they  didn't  discharge  me;  and  I  ^as  grateful 
for  that,  though  I  felt  at  times  I  was  not  prop- 
erly appreciated,  as  every  other  enthusiastic  and 
ambitious  boy  does.  I  was  sure  I  could  do  the 
theatres  better  than  the  regular  theatre  man  and 
felt  slighted  when  a  big  story  came  along  that 
I  did  not  have  a  hand  in.  I  was  big,  healthy, 
running  over  with  animal  spirits  and  certain  I 
had  struck  my  vocation.  There  wasn^t  any 
doubt  in  my  mind  that  I  could  make  a  great 
success  of  that  daily  newspaper,  for  I  thought 
I  knew  it  all — and  this  after  seven  or  eight 
months  at  the  business,  mark  you!  I  jumped 
at  the  chance,  for  in  our  vealy  office  talks  about 
newspaper  work  we  had  long  decided  that  the 
only  way  to  make  money  and  reputation  was 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  51 

to  own  a  paper — work  for  oneself  instead  of  for 
wages.  There  was  nothing  in  reporting.  That 
was  amply  demonstrated  by  the  fact  that  two 
such  colossal  geniuses  as  my  partner  and  my- 
self were  working  for  twelve  dollars  a  week 
apiece — fully  as  much  as  we  were  worth,  by 
the  way — and  one  or  two  others  on  the  staff, 
not  half  so  good,  were  getting  the  monumental 
wages  of  fifteen  and  seventeen  dollars.  The 
difference  between  twelve  dollars  a  week  and 
fifteen,  when  either  sum  is  the  total  income,  is 
greater  than  may  appear  to  the  casual  reader. 
That  extra  three  dollars  meant  many  things  that 
were  unattainable  when  it  did  not  come  in  on 
payday.  With  a  daily  paper  of  our  own  in  a 
flourishing  city,  we  figured  we  could  easily  earn 
a  hundred  dollars  a  week,  which  meant  fifty 
dollars  each;  and  fifty  dollars  was  as  much  as 
the  managing  editor  received — a  plutocrat  who 
belonged  to  clubs  and  rode  in  cabs,  smoked  two- 
for-a-quarter  cigars  and  had  several  suits  of 
clothes. 

Tad — ^who  was  my  partner — and  I  talked  until 


52  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

daylight  about  the  plan.  He  had  had  the  idea 
for  some  time,  for  an  uncle,  or  a  cousin,  or  a 
relation  of  some  kind  of  his,  had  a  paper  in  a 
small  Western  city  that  he  wanted  to  sell  so  he 
could  resume  the  practice  of  law.  Tad  out- 
lined the  scheme  to  me.  He  was  to  get  a  few 
days  off,  go  out  to  the  city,  see  the  uncle,  look 
over  the  proposition  and  come  back  and  report. 
He  was  sure  his  relative  would  give  him  a  rock- 
bottom  price  and  make  easy  terms.  Also,  he 
was  sure  his  relative  would  be  fair  and  Square, 
and  that  this  was  the  greatest  journalistic  open- 
ing for  two  bright  young  men — without  much 
capital  but  with  a  capacity  for  work — in  the 
country.  I  thought  so  too.  Neither  of  us  knew 
a  single  thing  about  any  other  opening  in  any 
other  city.  Nor  did  we  look  for  any.  We  felt 
this  was  a  providential  otfering  for  escape  from 
the  bondage  in  which  we  were  held,  and  we 
scraped  together  enough  money  to  buy  Tad  a 
railroad  ticket — out  and  back — and  get  him  a 
berth  each  way  and  his  meals.  It  didn't  take 
a  great  deal  of  money,  but  we  had  a  hard  time 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  53 

gathering  it.  As  I  remember  it,  we  borrowed 
about  all  the  available  capital  of  our  associates 
and  then  had  to  coax  the  cashier  to  advance  us 
five  dollars  each  on  our  salaries,  which  was  a 
good  deal  of  a  task  and  took  some  very  fluent 
and  impressive  reasons. 

Tad  left  one  Tuesday  night  and  I  stayed  on 
at  work,  walking  round  in  a  sort  of  a  rose- 
colored  dream  and  seeing  myself  a  great  editor 
in  a  great  state.  I  was  to  be  the  editor  and  Tad 
was  to  run  the  business  end.  Our  capacities  for 
these  various  employments  were  about  equal. 
I  had  been  a  reporter  in  a  small  city  for  less 
than  a  year,  and  he  had  graduated  from  college 
with  the  idea  of  studying  medicine.  Neither  one 
of  us  knew  a  bill  payable  from  a  passport,  and 
our  knowledge  of  the  politics  and  other  local 
complications  of  the  place  we  intended  to  make 
our  home  was  exceedingly  vague.  I  was  not 
yet  nineteen  and  he  was  a  shade  over  twenty- 
one — a  powerful  combination! 

Tad  said  the  reason  he  wanted  me  to  go  into 
partnership  with  him  was  because  of  my  facility 


54  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

for  making  friends,  which  gave  me  a  jolt.  I 
supposed  this  opportunity  had  sought  me  out 
because  of  my  highly  developed  editorial  capac- 
ity. However,  I  was  so  anxious  to  show  what 
I  could  do  that  I  swallowed  even  that  and  waited 
impatiently  for  his  return,  occupying  my  spare 
time  with  plans  for  running  the  paper.  I  could 
see  many  places  where  our  own  paper's  methods 
were  deficient  and  privately  I  knew  the  city 
editor  was  a  dub — and  I  had  my  doubts  about 
the  managing  editor.  Our  editor  was  the  man 
I  tied  to.  He  could  put  out  a  '*You-lie-you-vil- 
lain-you-lie!*'  editorial,  showing  how  any  per- 
son who  questioned  the  policies  of  the  Repub- 
lican party,  whether  in  Washington  or  the  fifth 
precinct  of  the  Third  Ward,  or  any  of  the  lead- 
ers, was  a  perjured  assassin  of  character;  and 
I  read  his  editorial  articles  avidly. 

The  days  dragged  along  until  the  end  of  the 
week.  Then  I  had  a  telegram  from  Tad  saying 
he  would  be  in  that  night.  I  was  at  the  station 
to  meet  him,  burning  with  eagerness  to  hear  his 
report.    I  knew  all  the  station  people  and  had 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  55 

no  difficulty  in  getting  into  the  trainshed.    Tad 
looked  very  important  as  he  came  from  his  car. 

''What  luck?"  I  asked. 

"Great!"  he  said. 

''Can  we  get  it r' 

Could  we  get  it?  Oh!— the  pathos  of  that 
question ! 

"Yep!" 

That  settled  it.  I  was  to  be  a  great  editor. 
I  felt  like  throwing  up  my  hat  and  spending 
the  last  quarter  I  had  for  a  telegram  to  my 
mother.  I  didn't,  though  I  borrowed  a  stamp 
and  wrote  her,  and  used  the  quarter  for  sand- 
wiches in  the  place  where  Tad  and  I  retired  to 
talk  it  over.  He  was  stone  broke.  Indeed,  he 
had  lived  on  a  nickel  that  day,  getting  a  bag 
of  peanuts  at  a  station  down  the  road  and  eating 
a  few  of  those  every  time  the  dining-car  waiter 
came  through  with  his  various  calls  for  meals 
in  the  dining  car.  The  trip  had  cost  more  than 
we  had  planned. 

"It's  a  bully  chance !"  he  told  me  as  we  went 
at  the  sandwiches.     "The  city  is  a  fine  little 


56  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

place  and  the  paper  is  all  right.  My  relative 
wants  to  go  to  another  city  to  practice  law,  and 
he  is  willing  to  make  a  low  price  to  ns  for  the 
paper.  It  is  an  evening  paper.  There  is  an- 
other paper  there  that  has  been  going  for  twenty 
years,  and  a  weekly  paper ;  but  we  can  run  them 
out  in  a  short  time  when  we  get  in  there  with 
our  knowledge  of  the  business.  They  are 
awfully  slow  and  old-fashioned.  The  paper  is 
four  pages  and  hasn't  been  looked  after.  The 
plant  isn't  so  big  as  it  might  be,  but  we  will 
soon  fix  that.  I  like  the  town.  It 's  a  bully  little 
place,  and  the  country  round  it  is  prosperous." 

''Has  the  paper  been  making  any  money!"  I 
asked  incidentally,  for  we  had  talked  for  an 
hour  of  the  various  editorial  reforms  we  pro- 
posed to  institute. 

''I  guess  so,"  he  answered  vaguely;  "for  it 
has  got  a  lot  of  advertising.  It  had  almost  two 
pages  the  day  I  was  there.  I  suppose,"  he 
commented,  ''that  is  where  the  money  comes 
from." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  answered,  and  then  we 


NEWSPAPER   IVIAN  57 

went  back  to  our  editorial  policy.  Neither  of  us 
was  interested  in  the  advertising  or  circulation, 
though  that  was  to  be  Tad's  end  of  it.  We 
talked  a  long  time  about  the  style  of  the  firm — 
a  most  important  feature — and  argued  whether 
his  name  or  mine  should  come  first.  Finally 
we  settled  it  by  pitching  a  penny.  I  won.  My 
name  was  to  be  first  and  his  was  to  follow  the 
**and,'^  which  firm  name  was  to  be  followed  by 
the  words,  ''Sole  Editors  and  Proprietors." 

We  stayed  there  until  they  shut  the  jilace. 
As  we  were  walking  up  the  street  it  occurred 
to  me  to  ask  how  much  the  paper  would  cost. 
That  part  of  it  had  been  given  little  consider- 
ation. The  main  thing  was  to  find  out  whether 
the  proprietor  would  condescend  to  sell  to  us. 

"What  does  he  want  for  the  outfit?"  I  asked 
in  an  off-hand  way. 

"Twenty-five  hundred  dollars." 

Twenty-five  hundred  dollars!  I  stopped  in 
the  street  and  looked  blankly  at  Tad.  Where 
would  we  get  twenty-five  hundred  dollars?  For 
the  first  time  it  appealed  to  me  that  money  must 


58  THE   MAILING   OF   A 

change  hands  in  a  transaction  of  this  kind.  I 
hadn't  thought  of  that  part  of  it  before. 

''Twenty-five  hundred  dollars!"  I  shouted. 
"Wliy  not  twenty-five  million'?  Where  can  we 
get  twenty-five  hundred  dollars?" 

"Oh,"  reassured  Tad,  ''it  isn't  all  in  cash. 
He  will  sell  it  to  us  for  five  hundred  dollars 
down  and  take  a  mortgage  for  the  rest." 

I  breathed  more  easily — though  five  hundred 
dollars  was  more  money  than  I  had  ever  seen 
at  one  time  in  my  life. 

"Well,"  I  said  grandly,  "we'll  take  it." 

"Sure!"  Tad  replied,  and  we  parted  to  go 
to  our  rooms.  I  walked  down  to  the  ofiice  and 
went  up  to  the  local  room.  Two  of  the  boys 
were  on  the  long  watch  and  the  rest  had  gone. 
They  were  reading  the  last  revises.  How  I 
pitied  them — slaves;  mere  cogs  in  a  great 
wheel !    While  I — I  was  a  Great  Editor ! 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  59 


CHAPTER  VII 

Next  day  we  went  into  the  financial  end  a  lit- 
tle. We  thought  if  we  got  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  each  to  make  up  the  five  hundred,  and 
a  hundred  each  for  expenses  and  railroad  fare 
and  money  to  have  on  hand  until  we  could  be- 
gin to  collect  on  the  advertising,  we  could  get 
along.  So  we  started  out  to  raise  the  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars  each.  It  was  hard  work. 
At  the  end  of  two  days  we  wired  our  benefactor 
we  thought  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  would 
be  enough — and  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
more  at  the  end  of  a  month.  He  sent  back  a 
' '  rush ' '  telegram  saying  that  would  be  all  right. 
This  seemed  verv  kind  of  him.  We  felt  under 
obligations.  We  never  had  a  suspicion  that  his 
haste  might  mean  anything  else  but  a  desire 
to  help  two  bright  young  chaps  make  a  start 
for  themselves. 


60  THE   MAKING    OF   A 

I  decided  to  get  three  hundred  dollars  if  I 
could.  I  soon  discovered  that  three  hundred 
dollars  is  a  mighty  sight  easier  to  say  and  to 
write  than  to  get — an  experience  common  to 
everybody  who  has  needed  that  much  money. 
My  rich  friends  all  had  excuses.  They  couldn't 
quite  see  the  proposition  in  the  bright  light  I 
did.  Finally  I  turned  to  a  source  that  had  never 
failed  me  in  times  of  dire  necessity  and  the 
money  came,  with  a  blessing.  That  three  hun- 
dred dollars  was  the  greatest  amount  of  money 
I  had  ever  had  at  one  time.  It  seemed  like  a 
fortune.  It  was  a  fortune,  for  with  it  I  was  to 
grab  the  world  and  shake  from  it  fame  and 
wealth  and  power.  Tad  got  some  money.  I 
forget  how  much — but  some.  Then  we  both 
resigned,  giving  the  customary  week's  notice, 
and  wrote  to  our  benefactor  that  we  would  take 
over  the  paper  on  a  certain  date — about  a  fort- 
night ahead. 

I  left  for  the  seat  of  my  future  operations 
one  raw  night  in  March  at  ten  o'clock.  The 
boys  came  down  to  see  me  off.    That  afternoon 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  61 

one  of  the  city  papers  had  printed  a  story  of 
the  venture.  The  first  line  of  the  head  was: 
*' Reporters  Become  Proprietors."  It  was  a 
fine  send-off.  I  have  the  clipping  yet.  The 
editor  and  the  managing  editor  had  wished  me 
luck,  but  had  expressed  chilling  doubts  of  the 
success  of  the  venture.  The  boys  of  the  local 
staff  were  frankly  envious.  They  thought  it  was 
great. 

It  was  the  first  long  railroad  journey  I  had 
ever  taken  and  the  first  time  I  had  ever  been 
in  a  sleeping  car.  I  watched  the  other  pas- 
sengers to  see  how  they  went  to  bed  and  finally 
turned  in.  I  had  the  joint  capital  of  the  firm, 
with  the  exception  of  enough  to  bring  Tad  out 
a  few  days  later,  pinned  in  the  inside  pocket 
of  my  vest.  I  wore  my  vest  to  bed — an  unneces- 
sary precaution,  for  I  was  so  excited  I  didn't 
sleep  a  wink,  but  tossed  about  all  night  and 
looked  out  the  windows  as  we  stopped  at  the 
stations.  Those  stops  that  night  are  literally 
burned  into  my  memory.  I  can  call  the  stations 
as  they  occurred  until  this  day ;  and  every  time 


62  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

I  ride  on  that  road,  which  I  have  done  a  hun- 
dred times  since,  I  look  out  at  those  places  and 
that  night  ride  comes  back  vividly.    I  can  tell 
the  railroad  peculiarities  of  every  station  we 
stopped  at.     Some  have  new  station  buildings 
now,  but  some  have  not — and  I  know  them  all. 
The  train  crawled.    I  was  anxious  to  get  at 
the  work  of  being  the  architect  of  my  own  for- 
tune.   When  we  got  to  the  flat  country  it  made 
me  a  bit  homesick.    I  was  used  to  hills  and  val- 
leys.    It  seemed  so  bare  and  depressing.     It 
was  a  twenty-four-hour  journey  and  the  train 
was  more  than  an  hour  late,  so  it  was  nearly 
midnight  when  the  porter  told  me  it  was  time 
for  me  to  get  off.    We  pulled  into  a  rather  pre- 
tentious station  and  the  porter  took  my  bag  and 
set  it  down  outside.    It  was  blowing  a  gale  of 
half  sleet  and  half  snow.    A  hack  or  two  and  a 
couple  of  hotel  busses  stood  near  the  station. 
I  took  the  bus  for  the  hotel  Tad  had  said  was 
near  our  oflSce  and  rode  up,  peering  out  through 
the  steaming  windows  to  try  and  see  something 
of  the  place.    I  noticed  the  street  lamps  were 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  63 

dim  and  far  apart  and  that  there  were  few  lights 
in  the  houses.  Finally  the  driver  turned  into  a 
paved  street  and  rattled  up  in  front  of  a  big, 
square,  slate-colored  place  he  said  was  the  ho- 
tel. I  was  cold  and  somewhat  discouraged.  My 
entry  to  the  scene  of  my  future  triumphs  lacked 
many  of  the  features  I  had  pictured  to  myself. 

Five  or  six  men  and  a  dozen  women  were 
sitting  around  a  big  stove  in  the  middle  of  the 
office.  I  registered  and  the  clerk  said  he  would 
have  a  room  for  me  as  soon  as  the  troupe  that 
had  played  there  that  night  left.  They  were 
going  out  on  the  one  o  'clock  train,  he  said.  Part 
of  them  were  in  the  room  then,  gathered  around 
the  stove.  I  pulled  up  a  chair  next  to  a  little, 
black-eyed,  swarthy  woman. 

She  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"You  leev  here?"  she  asked. 

*'No,"  I  replied;   ''but  I  expect  to.'* 

*'God  help  you!"  she  said,  patting  my  arm 
in  a  motherly  way. 

''Why!"  I  asked.  "What's  the  matter  with 
this  place?" 


64  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

Then  she  told  me  she  was  the  premiere 
danseuse  of  the  company  that  had  played  there 
that  night.  They  had  a  spectacular  show,  with 
a  small  ballet  in  it.  Business  had  been  very 
bad — not  only  there  but  elsewhere.  The  com- 
pany was  about  to  break  up.  She  had  walked 
about  the  city.  It  did  not  impress  her,  and  the 
fact  that  the  residents  had  refused  to  come  out 
and  see  one  of  the  world's  greatest  dancers  made 
it  certain  to  her  that  the  place  was  of  no  con- 
sequence. She  asked  me  all  about  myself  and 
I  told  her. 

' '  Too  bad ! ' '  she  said.  * '  Too  bad — and  such  a 
nice  young  man ! ' ' 

We  talked  some  more.  She  had  been  having 
an  incredibly  hard  time — getting  no  salary  and 
dancing  before  unresponsive  audiences.  If  she 
could  only  get  back  to  New  York!  Presently 
the  porter  bawled  out  the  train  and  the  actors 
and  actresses  bundled  on  their  wraps  and 
crowded  into  the  omnibus.  The  little  premiere 
patted  me  on  the  shoulder  again.  **Keep 
enough   to    get   home    with,''    she    whispered. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  65 

''Good-bye  and  good  luck!"  I  didn't  know 
it  then,  but  that  was  golden  advice.  She  waved 
her  hand  at  me  as  she  stepped  into  the  omnibus. 
The  driver  whipped  up  and  the  omnibus  rattled 
away.  I  have  often  wondered  whether  she  got 
back  to  New  York — and  how.  I  never  heard 
of  her  after  that 


B— Newspaper  Man. 


66  THE   MAKING   OF   A 


CHAPTER  Vni 

The  morose  mght  clerk  showed  me  up  to  my 
room.  It  was  cold  and  cheerless.  I  crawled  into 
bed,  but  I  didn't  sleep  any  that  night.  I  was 
homesick.  All  my  ideas  of  becoming  a  great 
editor  had  vanished.  I  wished  I  was  back  on 
the  local  staff.  I  conld  see  the  boys  reading 
proof  and  hear  them  roasting  everybody  on  the 
sheet.  I  could  smell  the  scorched  matrices  from 
the  stereotyping  room ;  see  the  foreman  cutting 
the  copy  into  short  takes  to  hurry  up  the  last 
local  and  telegraph;  could  hear  the  city  editor 
fighting  for  space  and  see  the  foreman  grimly 
shoving  galleys  of  type  into  the  left-over  rack. 
I  smelt  the  hot,  inky  odor  from  the  pressroom 
and  could  hear  the  whirring  of  the  presses.  I 
was  the  most  homesick  young  man  in  the  United 
States ! 

Next  morning,  before  I  had  breakfast,  the 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  67 

man  who  was  selling  the  paper  came  around 
to  the  hotel.  He  was  a  tall,  cadaverous  man, 
with  a  sweeping  black  mustache  and  a  furtive 
eve.  He  was  very  cordial.  He  sat  with  me  at 
breakfast  and  told  me  how  great  the  opportunity- 
was.  The  only  thing  that  led  him  to  sell  was 
his  love  for  Tad,  whom  he  wanted  to  see  started 
in  life,  and  the  fact  that  his  profession — the 
law — was  calling  for  him.  He  was  anxious  to 
close  the  deal  and — did  I  have  the  two  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  with  me?  I  cheered  up  a  lot 
under  his  talk  and  gave  him  the  money,  signing 
some  kind  of  a  paper  he  had  prepared.  Appar- 
ently it  made  no  difference  to  him  that  I  was 
a  minor  and  that  my  signature  was  of  no  con- 
sequence legally,  and  I  never  thought  of  that 
phase  of  the  transaction.  What  he  wanted  was 
the  two-fifty. 

He  told  me  how  to  get  to  the  office,  and  ex- 
cused himself.  Later,  I  learned  that  he  took 
the  first  train  out  of  town,  leaving  me  to  intro- 
duce myself  to  the  employes  as  one  of  the  new 
**sole  editors  and  proprietors."    He  said  John, 


68  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

the  city  editor,  would  explain  it  all  to  me.  I 
was  not  suspicious.  It  seemed  all  right.  So, 
after  paying  over  the  money,  I  bade  him  good- 
bye and  went  to  the  office. 

The  place  wasn't  half  a  block  from  the  hotel. 
The  former  owner  said  I  couldn't  miss  it.  I 
did,  though ;  and  I  asked  a  man  where  the  office 
of  the  ' '  Evening  Eagle ' '  was. 

''Right  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  one- 
story  wooden  building  that  sat  with  a  gable  end 
to  the  street  and  was  unpainted,  dilapidated 
and  not  much  larger  than  our  woodshed  at  home. 
I  stood  and  stared  at  it.  I  had  expected  to  find 
the  paper  housed  in  a  brick  building  of  some 
kind,  at  least.  Still,  I  remembered  Tad  had  said 
the  plant  wasn't  much  and  that  one  of  the  first 
things  to  do,  after  the  money  began  to  come 
in  under  our  powerful  editorial  and  business 
stimulus,  was  to  buy  some  new  presses  and  type 
and  fix  up  a  business  office.  I  went  into 
the  building.  It  was  divided  into  three 
parts  by  partitions.  In  one  room  there  were 
an    old,    flat-topped    desk    and    a    tall    desk 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  69 

snch  as  bookkeepers  use.  In  the  other  room 
there  were  another  desk  and  a  big  pile  of  adver- 
tising electrotypes  and  a  lot  of  similar  jnnk  in 
heaps  on  the  floor.  The  composing  room  was 
in  the  rear.  It  had  three  or  four  sets  of  type 
cases,  a  proof  press,  some  galley  racks  and  some 
other  furniture.  One  man  was  setting  type. 
He  was  a  small,  unshaven  man,  who  chewed 
tobacco  and  wore  a  very  dirty  collar. 

''Hello!"  he  said. 

''Hello !'^  I  replied. 

"Want  something?" 

"I  am  one  of  the  new  proprietors,"  I  in- 
formed him  with  as  much  dignity  as  I  could 
command.  In  reality,  instead  of  feeling  digni- 
fied, I  felt  like  crying.  It  was  all  so  different 
from  what  I  had  pictured  it. 

He  laughed — one  of  those  laughs  that  make 
you  want  to  kill  the  man  who  laughs! 

I  itched  to  slaughter  him — but  I  didn't.  He 
was  the  only  person,  apparently,  from  whom  I 
could  get  any  information. 

He  looked  at  me  pityingly. 


70  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

''You  don't  say!"  he  said.  ''Well,  I'm 
damned  glad  to  see  you,  for  if  we're  going  to 
get  this  rag  out  to-day  we've  got  to  have  some 
copy  pretty  quick." 

"Are  you  the  only  person  who  works  here?" 
I  asked  him.  "Where  is  the  city  editor  and 
where  are  the  reporters'?" 

He  laughed  again.  "He'll  be  in  pretty 
quick,"  he  replied.  "He's  gone  down  to  the 
depot  to  see  if  he  can't  get  some  of  his  back 
wages  from  the  old  boss." 

I  walked  out  in  the  other  room,  sat  down  in 
a  rickety  chair  and  looked  round.  It  was  sick- 
ening! Still,  I  was  in  for  it;  and  I  took  some 
paper,  sharpened  a  pencil  and  wrote  a  long 
editorial  article  which  I  headed  "Salutatory!" 
I  told  the  printer  to  use  triple  leads,  so  it  would 
look  more  important  and  also  take  up  more 
space.  In  this  editorial  article  I  informed  the 
citizens  of  the  city  of  the  change  of  ownership ; 
told  of  the  great  capabilities  of  the  new  owners; 
put  them  squarely  on  the  platform  of  being  for 
a  bigger,  better  and  busier  town;   promised  to 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  71 

fight  all  municipal  and  political  graft ;  to  bring 
about  much-needed  improvements;  to  hew  to 
the  line  and  let  the  chips  fall  where  they  might ; 
to  support  all  worthy  local  enterprises;  to  be 
unflinchingly  independent  in  politics,  choosing 
for  support  none  but  the  best  candidates — and 
a  lot  of  similar  flubdub.  I  remarked  in  capital 
letters  that  we  had  come  to  stay,  had  invested 
our  capital  here  because  we  believed  in  the 
glorious  future  of  the  town,  and  solicited  sup- 
port for  our  great  enterprise  from  all  citizens, 
stating  we  would  play  no  favorites  but  would 
give  the  citizens  a  bright,  newsy  paper ;  in  fact, 
I  said  we  intended — and  had  the  capital  to  carry 
out  the  intention — to  make  this  one  of  the  lead- 
ing papers  of  the  state  and  a  lasting  credit  to 
the  city. 

As  I  was  writing,  a  man  came  in.  He  was  a 
rather  shabby  man,  with  a  heavy  black  mus- 
tache, and  carried  an  old,  faded  umbrella,  which 
he  gripped  tightly  in  his  hand. 

He  stood  uneasily  and  looked  at  me. 

''What  is  it?"  I  asked,  rather  peremptorily. 


72  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

*' Nothing,'^  he  said — ''nothing  much.  Only 
I'm  the  editorial  staff.'' 

^*John!"  shouted  the  printer — "John — dod- 
gast  you  I — Where's  your  local ?'* 

"Great  Scott!"  I  thought.  "That  printer 
seems  to  be  boss  round  here.  I'll  soon  change 
that." 

"AU  right,  Chet,"  John  replied.  "All  right. 
I'll  get  right  at  it.  Only  this  man  is  using  my 
desk." 

"I'm  the  new  editor,"  I  said,  again  drawing 
heavily  on  my  reserve  stock  of  dignity. 

John  looked  at  me  the  same  way  the  printer 
had.    Then  he  faltered: 

"Am  I  discharged?" 

Fancy  a  man  asking  me  if  he  was  discharged  I 
Fancy  my  having  the  power  to  discharge  any 
one! 

"No,  my  man,"  I  said  patronizingly;  "you 
are  not  discharged.  I  shall  keep  you  on  until 
I  see  what  you  can  do.  Of  course,  if  you 
prove  your  worth  I  shall  be  glad  to  retain 
you.      At    present    any    arrangement    I   may 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  73 

make  with  you  is  but  temporary.  I  must  try 
you  out/' 

I  have  thought  for  many  years  since  that  mo- 
ment that  John  should  have  batted  me  over  the 
head  with  his  umbrella.  I  deserved  it,  for  I  soon 
found  John  and  that  printer  were  the  only  real 
friends  I  had  in  that  state.  John's  salary,  I  may 
say,  was  eight  dollars  a  week  under  the  old 
regime. 

*'Jolm,"  squeaked  the  printer,  **did  you  get 
any  dough  out  of  the  old  man!" 

John  hurried  into  the  composing  room  and 
whispered  to  the  printer. 

*'A11  right,"  I  heard  the  printer  say;  * 'we'll 
tap  him." 

John  came  back  to  the  desk  where  I  was  sit- 
ting. 

*'If  you  don't  mind,"  he  said  meekly,  ''I'll 
write  up  what  local  I've  got.  We  go  to  press 
at  four  o'clock." 

"Four  o'clock!"  I  shouted.  "Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  print  only  one  edition  in  the  after- 
noon?" 


74  THE   MAiaNG   OF   A 

''We've  always  found  one  enough !"  And 
John  grinned  a  little. 

"My  dear  sir,"  I  said  in  my  most  important 
manner,  "that  will  be  changed.  We  intend  to 
give  the  people  of  this  city  an  up-to-date  after- 
noon newspaper.  We  shall  have  a  noon  edition, 
a  home  edition  and  a  street  edition,  and  issue 
extras  whenever  the  news  is  worth  one." 

"Well,"  said  John,  "that's  all  right;  but  you 
can't  start  to-day." 

"Why  not?" 

"There  ain't  enough  paper  on  hand  for  the 
edition,  for  one  thing,  and  the  telegraph  won't 
be  here  in  time  for  a  noon  edition." 

"Telegraph  won't  be  here  in  time!"  I  par- 
roted blankly.  "Why  not?  Isn't  the  telegraph 
coming  in  all  the  time?" 

' '  It  comes  in  by  express  at  two  o  'clock, ' '  said 
John  simply. 

"By  express!"  I  was  dumfounded.  We  had 
the  full  press  report  back  in  the  old  shop  and 
two  specials — to  say  nothing  of  cords  of  stuff 
from  special  correspondents. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  75 

"Yes,"  explained  Jolin.  ''Our  telegraph  is 
six  columns  of  plate  matter  sent  in  from  Chi- 
cago every  morning  by  express.  If  the  train  is 
late  we  have  to  hold  the  paper  until  it  comes. 
Once  there  was  a  wreck  and  we  couldn't  get  it 
out  that  day  at  all ! '  ^ 

''Let  me  see  yesterday's  paper,"  I  demanded. 

John  got  one.  It  was  a  six-column  sheet  of 
four  pages.  On  the  first  page  there  were  two 
columns  of  plate  matter;  then,  in  the  middle, 
two  columns  of  display  advertising;  and,  to 
finish  up  the  page,  two  more  columns  of  plate 
telegraph  matter.  There  was  a  column  of  wishy- 
washy  editorial  matter  on  the  second  page  and 
two  or  three  columns  of  plate  matter,  including 
the  two  columns  of  telegraph  left  off  the  first 
page,  and  some  display  advertising.  The  third 
page  had  two  columns  of  local  news,  set  in  big 
type,  and  advertising;  and  the  last  page  was 
mostly  advertising  of  the  type  called  "foreign" 
— that  is,  it  was  patent-medicine  advertising  and 
that  sort  of  stuff,  and  not  local  advertising. 
From  a  casual  inspection,   judging  from  the 


76  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

amount  of  advertising  carried,  the  paper  was 
prosperous  if  any  money  at  all  was  being  taken 
in  for  it. 

'*I  don't  like  that,'^  I  said  to  John,  pointing 
to  the  two  columns  of  advertising  on  the  first 
page.  ''I  shall  put  that  stuff  back  in  the  inside 
of  the  paper. ' ' 

*'I  wouldn't,  if  I  were  you,'^  John  advised. 
** That's  the  only  cash  advertising  we  have  and 
we  have  to  give  them  that  position  to  get  the 
money." 

''The  only  cash  advertising!"  I  exclaimed. 
''What,  in  Heaven's  name,  is  the  rest  of  this 
stuff?" 

"I've  got  to  get  up  my  local,"  said  John,  and 
sat  down  at  the  desk. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  77j 


CHAPTER  IX 

I  studied  the  paper.  It  was  a  poor  thing. 
The  telegraph  news  was  reasonably  fresh,  but 
it  humiliated  me  to  think  it  was  east  in  plate, 
shipped  from  Chicago  by  express  instead  of  com- 
ing in  over  our  own  wire.  Still,  I  reflected,  it 
would  cost  a  heap  to  get  wire  service  and  entail 
the  employment  of  a  lot  of  printers  to  set  the 
stuff.  So  I  resolved  not  to  cut  it  off  until  Tad 
came,  at  any  rate,  and  we  could  talk  over  wire 
arrangements  and  buy  a  suitable  service  from 
the  press  association.  The  local  news  was  un- 
speakable. It  was  mostly  personal  items  about 
people  who  took  the  trains  in  the  morning,  a 
little  sloppy  society,  a  rank  story  about  a  meet- 
ing of  the  common  council  and  some  stuff  about 
a  church  fair.  ''We'll  liven  that  up,"  I  said 
grimly. 

John  turned  in  his  local.    Meantime  another 


78  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

frowsy  printer  had  come  in  and  taken  a  case. 
I  found  out  that  the  pressman  was  not  due  until 
three  o'clock,  that  we  had  an  arrangement 
whereby  we  bought  our  power  from  a  near-by 
factory  and  that  our  edition  the  afternoon  be- 
fore was  four  hundred  copies,  from  which  the 
revenue  was  considerably  less  than  two  dollars. 
Both  Tad  and  I  had  forgotten  to  ask  what  the 
circulation  was.  Still,  that  made  no  difference, 
for  we  would  make  the  paper  so  much  better 
than  it  had  been  the  people  would  just  have  to 
buy  it. 

It  took  some  tall  hustling  to  get  even  that 
small  grist  of  matter  put  into  type.  John's 
copy  made  me  writhe  and  I  edited  it  as  much 
as  I  dared.  Chet,  the  printer,  told  me  if  I  cut 
out  much  of  it  we  wouldn  't  have  anything  to  fill 
with  unless  we  shoved  in  some  more  dead  ads. 

"Dead  ads?"  I  asked.  "What  are  dead 
ads?" 

Chet  took  a  copy  of  the  paper  of  the  previous 
afternoon  and  swept  his  hand  comprehensively 
over  the  entire  back  page  and  most  of  the  third 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  79 

page,  where  there  was  so  brave  a  showing  of 
patent-medicine  advertising. 

''Them's  dead  ads,"  he  said. 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

He  hmghed  again. 

*'I  mean  them's  ads  that  the  contracts  has 
run  out  for,  and  we've  bin  runnin'  them  because 
it  was  cheaper  to  use  them  than  set  type." 

**Do  you  mean  that  no  money  is  to  be  paid 
for  that  advertising?"  I  gasped. 

''Not  a  cent,"  he  said.  "Gimme  the  copy 
for  the  rest  of  that  salutatory  of  yours." 

That  was  a  facer.  I  sat  down  and  read  proof 
on  the  salutatory;  but  it  was  a  bad  job  of 
proofreading.  I  could  see  nothing  but  "dead 
ads"  in  every  line  instead  of  the  highfalutin 
language  I  had  so  confidently  written  a  short 
time  before. 

' '  Where 's  the  telegraph ! "  I  asked  John  about 
two  o'clock. 

"Down  at  the  express  office." 

"Why  don't  they  deliver  itl" 
'Well,   you  see,"   said  John,   "we've  been 


(( 


80  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

kind  of  slow  payin'  for  tliat  stuff  and  theyVe 
gone  to  sending  it  C.  0.  D." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

John  told  me  and  I  gave  him  the  money. 
Presently  an  expressman  came  in  with  a  long, 
narrow  box  with  a  sliding  cover.  In  it  were 
six  plates,  each  a  column  wide,  of  assorted  tele- 
graph news.  Chet,  who,  I  discovered  was  fore- 
man as  well  as  devil,  took  the  six  plates,  handed 
me  the  proof  sheet  of  the  plates  that  were  in  the 
box  and  asked  me  how  I  wanted  it.  There  were 
three  columns  with  display  heads  at  the  top  and 
three  columns  with  two-line  heads.  Thus  a  big 
head  could  be  placed  in  the  first,  third  and  fifth 
or  sixth  columns,  and  the  other  columns  sand- 
wiched in  between.  This  slovenly  make-up 
jarred  me,  but  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 
"Anyhow,"  I  thought,  "they  will  all  read  the 
salutatory. "  And  if  I  continued  the  two-column 
advertisement  in  the  middle  of  the  page  I  could 
have  a  head  on  the  first  column  and  one  on  the 
sixth,  and  that  would  make  a  fairly  presentable 
page.    I  considered  that  for  quite  a  time.    Then 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  81 

I  told  Chet  to  put  the  first-page  advertising  on 
the  inside. 

' '  You  11  lose  it, '  *  Chet  said. 

''All  right,"  I  replied;  "then  we'll  get  some 
more.^* 

Chet  laughed  again. 

After  much  trouble  we  got  the  paper  to  press. 
Half  a  dozen  small  boys  came  around  about 
four  0  'clock  and  bought  a  few  copies.  I  took  in 
seventeen  cents,  which  meant  I  sold  thirty-four 
copies  to  the  boys.  That  constituted  our  street 
sale  that  day,  for  nobody  evinced  enough  inter- 
est in  our  enterprise  to  come  in  and  get  a 
paper — nor  did  any  of  the  boys  come  back  for 
more. 

The  mail  came  in  with  a  liberal  number  of 
exchanges  and  a  lively  letter  from  Tad.  I 
clipped  a  little  miscellany,  wrote  two  or  three 
editorials  on  broad,  general  topics  and  gave 
them  to  Chet — and  sat  down  to  figure  out  what 
had  happened. 

I  couldn't.  I  felt  we  had  been  swindled,  but 
I  didn't  know  enough  about  it  yet  to  point  out 

6 — Newspaper  Man. 


82  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

where.  As  I  was  sitting  there  Chet  and  John 
came  in. 

"Boss,"  said  Chet,  ''can  we  have  a  little 
money  r' 

''How  much?"  I  asked. 

"A  couple  of  dollars  to  get  something  for  the 
house. ' ' 

I  gave  each  of  them  two  dollars  and  they  left. 
I  found  a  key  in  the  door  and  locked  it.  Then 
I  walked  down  to  the  telegraph  office  and  wired 
to  Tad :  "Hurry  up  and  get  out  here.  We  have 
been  buncoed!" 

That  night  I  received  a  telegram  from  Tad: 
"I  shall  be  there  day  after  to-morrow.  Cheer 
up!    It's  all  right." 

I  was  so  tired  that  night  that  even  my  fears 
could  not  keep  me  awake ;  and  when  I  rose  next 
morning  and  had  my  breakfast  I  was  in  better 
spirits.  ' '  I  won 't  quit, ' '  1  said.  "  I  '11  fight  this 
out  somehow." 

I  went  over  to  the  office  early  and  gave  John 
some  assignments  that  opened  his  eyes.  One 
was  to  go  to  the  hotels  and  get  a  list  of  hotel 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  83 

arrivals.  John  turned  in  this  list  and  I  printed 
it.  Next  day  he  came  in  with  a  list  of  notables 
from  all  over. 

' '  Get  busy,  John ! "  I  shouted.  '  *  If  these  peo- 
ple are  all  here  get  out  and  interview  them. 
Ask  them  how  they  like  the  town.  Get  some- 
thing out  of  them  and  we  '11  have  a  few  live  lines 
in  the  sheet,  anyhow.^' 

John  hurried  out,  but  came  back  in  half  an 
hour  looking  very  sheepish.  '*It  was  a  joke," 
he  said — ' '  they  wrote  them  names  on  the  regis- 
ter to  fool  us!'* 

I  had  to  get  the  telegraph  out  of  the  express 
office  that  second  afternoon  just  as  I  had  on  the 
first.  Moreover,  the  man  who  had  the  two- 
column  advertisement  on  the  first  page  came  in 
and  said  unless  he  could  have  that  position  he 
would  take  his  advertisement  out.  "Give  it  to 
him,"  advised  Chet — and  I  did.  We  needed 
the  money ;  though  when  I  inquired  I  found  he 
had  that  commanding  position  in  that  great 
organ  of  public  opinion  for  less  than  two  dol- 
lars a  day ! 


84  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

I  took  in  twenty-four  cents  from  the  street 
boys  that  afternoon  and  had  an  order  or  two 
from  the  carrier  routes.  Also,  I  wrapped  up 
the  mail  myself  and  sent  the  papers  over  to  the 
post-oflSce.  Nobody  had  done  that  on  my  first 
afternoon,  but  I  received  no  protests.  Appar- 
ently nobody  cared  whether  the  "Evening 
Eagle"  came  out  or  not.  Along  about  five 
o'clock  Chet  came  in  and  asked  for  a  dollar. 

"Chet,"  I  said,  "what  sort  of  a  game  is  this 
I  am  up  against,  anyhow?" 

"Well,"  said  Chet,  "I'll  tell  you.  I've  bin 
workin'  along  here  for  a  couple  of  months  and 
gettin'  a  dollar  or  so  at  a  time,  an'  John's  bin 
doin'  the  same  thing.  This  here  paper  was 
pretty  fair  one  time,  but  the  feller  that  started 
it  sold  out  to  the  man  who  sold  it  to  you  an' 
moved  to  another  town.  This  here  is  a  Repub- 
lican community  and  the  other  paper's  bin  here 
for  years,  an'  is  a  good,  reliable  paper,  with  a 
telegraph  report  by  wire,  and  sticks  to  the  Re- 
publican party.  They  was  room  enough  here 
for  another  paper;   but  the  man  that  just  had 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  85 

it  threw  this  here  one  away  from  bein'  an  inde- 
pendent paper  an'  made  it  prohibition.  Now, 
that  don't  go  in  this  here  town.  He  was  nasty, 
too;  and  he  put  in  a  lot  of  mean  stuff  about 
our  citizens. 

**Nacherally  the  'Eagle'  lost  circulation;  an* 
he  was  a  lawyer  an'  didn't  know  no  thin'  about 
newspapers,  anyhow.  The  sheriff's  bin  jist  two 
jumps  behind  us  for  two  months.  Then  the 
editor  gets  you  fellers  on  the  string  and  sells 
to  you.  It  was  a  shame.  He  rigged  up  a  plant 
on  you.  He  showed  that  feller  that  came  out 
here  fake  contracts  and  run  the  paper  full  of 
dead  advertising  and  buncoed  him  right  smart. 
He  was  at  the  end  of  his  string,  an'  he  knew 
it;  an'  he  jumped  the  town  with  whatever 
money  you  gave  him.  Everything  here's  mort- 
gaged an'  we  owe  everybody  in  town.  The 
paper  ain't  worth  a  damn — an'  never  has  bin; 
and  you  're  plumb  up  against  it ! " 

Then  Chet  took  the  paper  and  showed  me  in 
detail  just  how  we  had  been  flim-flammed.  As 
nearly  as  I  could  make  it  out,  the  paper  car- 


86  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

ried  about  twenty  dollars'  worth  of  live  adver- 
tising a  day,  with  all  the  rest  worthless;  and 
there  were  no  contracts  outstanding.  We  were 
in  debt  to  the  paper  house  and  could  only  get 
paper  by  paying  from  day  to  day.  Of  course 
I  didn't  purpose  to  pay  off  the  old  debts;  but 
I  didn't  know  whether  Tad  had  bought  the  insti- 
tution, debts  and  all,  or  not.  I  soon  found  out. 
He  had. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  87 


CHAPTER  X 

Tad  came  in  that  niglit  and  I  went  down  to 
meet  him.  He  got  jauntily  off  the  train,  carry- 
ing a  guitar-case  in  his  hand. 

*' What's  thatr'  I  asked. 

*'My  guitar/'  he  answered.  "I  thought  we 
might  like  a  little  music  of  an  evening  until  we 
get  acquainted  around  town.'' 

''Fine  idea,"  I  said.  ''Great!  Unstrap  it 
and  play  the  Spanish  Fandango  now." 

"What  for?"  he  asked  in  amazement. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  I  said;  "but  I  sort  of  need 
music  at  this  juncture." 

"What's  biting  you?" 

"Nothing — nothing  at  all,  except  that  we're 
the  two  biggest  suckers  on  the  inhabited  globe." 

Tad  dropped  his  guitar. 

"What's  the  matter?  Isn't  everything  all 
right?" 


88  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

**Tad,  I  said,  "this  is  no  place  to  break  the 
news  to  you.  Let  me  lead  you  to  the  seclusion 
of  our  boarding  house.  Have  you  got  any 
more  money?" 

Tad  looked  at  me  blankly. 

''More  money?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  think 
I'm  John  D.  Rockefeller?  I  gave  you  all  the 
money  I  could  get.  What's  become  of  it?  I've 
only  a  few  dollars  in  my  pocket." 

''Come  on!"  I  said  firmly.  "Come  on,  be- 
fore I  kill  you  on  the  spot !  What  do  we  want 
with  more  money?  Why,  dad  blame  you,  we 
want  all  the  money  in  the  world  to  pull  this 
thing  your  benignant  relative  sold  to  us  out 
of  the  hole." 

Tad  said  nothing.  As  we  walked  up  the  street 
I  suggested: 

"Play  a  little  something  on  your  guitar,  Tad. 
A  little  music  wiU  be  fine  while  we  are  getting 
acquainted." 

"Shut  up,"  he  retorted  savagely,  "or  I'll 
break  it  over  your  head!" 

' '  That 's  right, ' '  I  replied.    ' '  My  head  is  thick 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  89 

enough  to  break  anything  on,  or  I  wouldn't  be 
here." 

There  was  no  more  conversation  until  we 
reached  the  room  I  had  rented.  I  lighted  a 
cigar  a  man  had  given  me  who  wanted  a  two- 
column  puff  of  his  candidacy  for  assessor 
printed  for  nothing,  and  Tad  sat  on  the  bed 
and  glowered. 

"What  is  it r'  he  finally  said.  ''Get  it  out 
of  your  system.    What's  wrong!" 

"What's  wrong?"  I  shouted.  "Hear  him 
babble!  What's  wrong!  Why,  you  fair-haired 
galoot,  everything  is  wrong.  Here,  we've  quit 
our  jobs  and  come  away  out  here  and  given  a 
relative  of  yours — a  dear,  kind,  honest  relative 
of  yours — who  wanted  to  see  you  get  a  start  in 
the  world,  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  of  good 
money  and  tied  ourselves  up  for  more  than  two 
thousand  more,  for  a  rag  of  a  sheet  that  isn't 
worth  two  hundred  and  fifty  cents." 

"You  must  be  mistaken,"  insisted  Tad. 

"Mistaken!"  I  roared — "when  the  total  cash 
receipts  of  the  place  for  the  first  four  days  are 


'90  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

less  than  a  dollar;  when  the  total  advertising 
isn't  worth  twenty  dollars  a  day  and  most  of 
that  we've  got  to  take  out  in  trade;  when  not 
a  line  of  new  advertising  can  be  secured  in  the 
place,  for  they  wouldn't  advertise  with  us  if  we 
gave  it  to  them;  when  the  paper  has  been  on 
the  wrong  side  of  everything  for  the  last  three 
years ;  when  we  've  got  only  four  hundred  circu- 
lation, and  two  hundred  of  that  compli- 
mentary!"   I  stopped  and  laughed. 

''What  are  you  laughing  at?"  asked  Tad. 

*'I  was  laughing  to  think  of  anybody  being 
complimented  by  getting  that  sheet!" 

**But,"  said  Tad,  ignoring  the  remark,  **it 
carried  a  lot  of  advertising  when  I  saw  it;  and 
he  told  me  it  was  making  good  money.'* 

"Surely  it  carried  a  lot  of  advertising  when 
you  saw  it,  but  it  was  dead  advertising.  Do 
you  get  that?  Dead  advertising !  It  was  adver- 
tising that  had  been  paid  for  and  had  run  out, 
and  he  was  carrying  it  for  nothing,  because  that 
was  cheaper  than  setting  up  stuff  to  fill  the 
space.     It  isn't  worth  a  nickel  a  year  to  us! 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  9i: 

And  all  those  contracts  lie  showed  you  had  ex- 
pired. And  the  plant  isn't  worth  forty  dollars 
— and  we  don't  own  it  anyhow,  for  it's  mort- 
gaged. And  we  have  to  buy  paper  day  by 
day  and  take  the  telegraph  boiler-plate  out  of 
hock  each  afternoon  before  we  can  get  the  paper 
on  the  rickety  old  press.  And  our  total  cash 
capital  is  less  than  seventy-five  dollars — and 
we  can 't  raise  another  cent  in  this  world !  And 
our  force  consists  of  two  bum  printers  and  an 
editorial  staff  that  doesn't  know  its  name.  And 
they  will  shut  off  our  power  unless  we  pay  up 
before  the  end  of  the  week.  And  the  rent  on 
the  shack  where  we  are  is  due  and  we  are  likely 
to   be   evicted  unless  we   can   stave   that  off. 

And But  what's  the  use?    Play  something 

on  your  guitar,  Tad.  We  need  a  little  music, 
don't  you  think  I" 

''What  shall  I  play!"  asked  Tad,  who  sat 
blinking  at  me. 

**0h,"  I  said,  ''play  the  Dead  March  in  Saul! 
That'll  about  hit  things  off,  I  reckon." 

What  is  a  roaring  comedy  now  was  a  fearful 


92  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

tragedy  then.  We  sat  in  our  room  and  looked 
at  one  another.  There  was  nothing  to  say.  If 
we  had  had  as  much  business  sense  as  a  pair 
of  three-year-old  twins  we  never  should  have 
been  in  that  fix ;  but  neither  of  us  had  a  grain 
of  that  useful — not  to  say  essential — under- 
standing. We  were  a  pair  of  enthusiastic  young 
theorists;  and  at  that  moment  not  only  our 
doll  but  every  doll  in  the  world  was  stuffed  with 
sawdust. 

We  discussed  the  situation.  Every  plan  we 
laid  ran  hard  against  the  same  stone  wall.  It 
all  resolved  itself  to  the  question  of  money.  If 
we  had  money  we  could  scrabble  along  for  a 
time.  Without  money  we  were  helpless;  and 
there  wasn't  a  place  in  the  world  where  I  could 
get  another  dollar.  Tad  was  in  the  same  case. 
So  we  shook  out  our  pockets.  We  had  less  than 
a  hundred  dollars  between  us,  and  there  were 
bills  to  be  paid  and  other  expenses  lO  be  met — 
to  say  nothing  of  wages  for  our  small  staff. 

''Let's  go  to  bed,"  said  Tad. 

There  was  no  good  reason  for  staying  up,  so 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  93 

we  went  to  bed ;  and  when  we  were  dressing  in 
the  morning  Tad  evolved  a  plan.  It  was  this: 
We  were  to  go  down  to  the  office,  look  into  the 
situation  thoroughly,  get  all  the  information  we 
could  from  Chet  and  John;  then  follow  the 
man  who  sold  us  the  paper  to  the  city  he  was 
to  practice  law  in  and  ask  him  to  take  the  paper 
back — and  give  us  at  least  enough  of  our  money 
for  railroad  fares  to  the  East.  That  cheered 
US.  We  thought  if  we  put  the  case  fairly  and 
squarely  up  to  the  former  proprietor  he  surely 
would  be  willing  to  be  fair  and  square  himself. 
That,  I  may  say,  was  the  final  evidence  of  the 
fact  that  neither  of  us  was  fit  to  be  at  large 
in  the  world  without  a  guardian. 

We  fixed  up  the  paper  for  the  day,  writing 
some  perfunctory  editorial  articles  and  handing 
John's  local  news  to  Chet  without  even  reading 
it.  Then  we  called  Chet  and  John  in  and  asked 
them  how  about  it.  John  hadn't  said  much  up 
to  that  time,  but  he  unbosomed  himself  then. 
He  told  how  he  hadn't  been  getting  his  eight 
dollars  a  week  regularly;   how  the  paper  had 


94  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

been  milked  until  the  last  dollar  had  been  ex- 
tracted; how  local  advertising  contracts  or 
agreements  had  been  made  for  long  terms  at 
extremely  low  rates  even  for  so  poor  a  medium, 
in  consideration  of  payment  in  advance,  and 
how  we  were  stuck  with  those  agreements  and 
there  could  be  no  money  coming  in  for  weeks; 
how  dead  advertising  had  been  carried  along; 
and  how  the  paper  man  and  the  plate  man  and 
the  power  man  and  the  ink  man,  and  all  the  rest, 
had  been  paid  from  day  to  day  or  staved  off 
if  possible.  In  short,  he  showed  us  that  we  had 
bought  an  entirely  worthless  property  and  that 
if  we  had  no  money  we  might  as  well  quit. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  95 


CHAPTER  XI 

We  both  were  confident  we  could  pull  out  if 
we  had  two  or  three  thousand  dollars ;  but  we 
might  just  as  well  have  needed  two  or  three 
millions.  I  didn't  know  how  to  get  any  money, 
nor  did  my  partner.  We  had  trouble  enough 
scraping  together  the  little  first  payment.  So 
there  we  were!  We  put  all  these  facts  in  as 
presentable  shape  as  possible  and  I  started  for 
the  city  where  the  man  who  sold  us  the  paper 
was  living.  The  place  was  away  up  north  and 
there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  We  de- 
cided it  would  be  wise  to  go  as  cheaply  as  pos- 
sible— and  I  went  in  a  day  coach.  The  weather 
was  bitterly  cold  and  so  was  the  day  coach. 
Along  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  they 
hustled  me  out  at  a  junction  and  told  me  the 
train  I  wanted  would  be  by  at  five.  I  shivered 
round  there  until  the  train  came  along  about 


96  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

six,  and  at  noon  I  got  to  my  destination.  It  so 
happened  a  merchant  in  that  town  was  originally 
from  my  home  village  and  I  went  to  see  him 
and  asked  him  for  the  name  of  a  good  lawyer. 
He  told  me  where  to  go. 

I  laid  my  case  before  the  lawyer.  We  had 
heard  of  some  sort  of  a  legal  proceeding  called 
a  capias;  and  I  thought  that  was  what  I  wanted. 
The  lawyer  listened  gravely  and  after  I  had 
finished  and  suggested  a  capias — ^not  knowing 
whether  a  capias  was  a  body  execution  or  a 
death  warrant — the  lawyer  said: 

*' Very  well ;  I  can  apply  for  such  a  writ.  Of 
course  you  are  prepared  to  furnish  the  neces- 
sary bond?" 

''Bond!''  I  gasped.    ''What  sort  of  a  bondT* 

"Why,  in  a  proceeding  of  this  sort  it  is  neces- 
sary to  furnish  a  bond  to  indemnify  the  person 
against  whom  the  writ  issues  should  the  writ 
not  be  well  taken." 

It  may  be  I  do  not  remember  the  legal  term- 
inology correctly,  but  I  do  remember  he  wanted 
a  bond;    and  I  also  remember  vividly  that  I 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  97 

couldn't  have  furnished  a  bond  for  five  cents. 
That  was  a  facer. 

''Can't  we  do  it  without  a  bond!"  I  asked. 

*'No,"  he  replied. 

''Very  well,"  I  said;  ''I  will  go  down  to  my 
hotel  and  arrange  for  the  bond  and  call  on  you 
later  in  the  day.    I  must  wire  my  partner. ' ' 

As  I  was  going  out  he  coughed  inquiringly. 
I  turned. 

"My  retainer,"  he  suggested  suavely. 

' '  Oh,  certainly, ' '  I  said  quite  grandly.  ' '  How 
much  will  be  sufficient?" 

"Well,  about  twenty-five  dollars  will  do  in 
the  circumstances — though  ordinarily  I  would 
ask  a  hundred.  I  feel  a  deep  sympathy  for  you 
boys  and  think  you  have  been  shabbily  treated; 
so  I  shall  not  charge  you  much." 

Charge  us  much !  He  was  then  charging  me 
about  all  I  had.  I  took  five  five-dollar  bills  from 
my  meager  roll  of  money  and  handed  them  to 
him  and  he  gave  me  a  receipt.  I  have  that  re- 
ceipt yet.  It  was  the  only  thing  I  brought  home 
with  me. 

T^Newspaper  Man. 


98  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

I  stumbled  out  to  the  street,  dazed.  It  had 
suddenly  dawned  on  me  that  getting  back  our 
money  and  giving  back  the  paper  were  not 
such  simple  problems  as  they  had  seemed  to 
Tad  and  myself.  Indeed,  I  had  a  glimmer  we 
could  do  neither  thing,  which  proved  to  be  the 
case.  I  went  to  the  hotel  and  asked  about  the 
trains.  There  was  no  way  to  get  out  until  the 
next  morning.  So  I  hunted  up  the  former  pro- 
prietor. I  found  him  in  an  office,  surrounded 
by  lawbooks.  He  wasn't  busy  and  he  was  sur- 
prised to  see  me.  I  was  overcome  by  my  wrongs 
and  cried  out:  ''Give  us  back  our  money,  you 
swindler !  That  paper  is  no  good  and  you  sold 
it  to  us  on  false  pretenses!    You're  a  cheat!'' 

He  was  a  smooth  and  oily  person,  that  lawyer. 
He  half  started  from  his  chair  as  if  to  attack 
me.  I  hoped  he  would,  for  I  knew  I  could  whip 
him.  He  didn't,  though.  Instead,  he  sat  back, 
smiled  rather  indulgently  and  said  soothingly: 
''Calm  yourself,  my  dear  boy.  You  are  ex- 
cited.    Wliat  is  the  matter?" 

I  was  gulping  like  a  child  when  I  sat  down, 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  99 

wild  with  rage  and  seeing  red.  I  half  formed 
a  plan  to  throttle  him  and  take  the  consequences. 
Then  a  feeling  of  my  utter  helplessness  came 
over  me  and  I  almost  sobbed  as  I  began  my 
recital. 

He  listened  calmly.  Then  he  began  to  talk. 
He  told  me  we  had  bought  the  paper  with  our 
eyes  open;  that  we  were  a  couple  of  kids  who 
expected  to  find  as  much  in  a  small  city  as  we 
had  left  behind  us ;  that  running  a  daily  paper 
in  a  small  town  was  a  precarious  business  at 
the  best,  and  that  we  should  have  known  it  at 
the  start;  that  he  sold  on  a  caveat-emptor  plan; 
and  that,  being  a  lawyer,  and  familiar  with  the 
laws  of  the  state,  he  had  protected  himself; 
that  he  would  not  give  us  our  money  back  and 
would  hold  us  to  our  bargain;  and  that  if  we 
did  not  fulfill  our  obligations  he  would  proceed 
against  us  legally;  and  that,  finally,  if  we  had 
taken  over  a  proposition  like  that,  with  only 
enough  money  to  pay  the  first  installment,  we 
deserved  to  lose!  And  he  wished  me  a  very 
good  day  and  invited  me  to  begin  any  legal  pro- 


100  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

ceedings  I  saw  fit  at  the  earliest  possible  mo- 
ment. 

I  can  see  him  now  as  I  saw  him  then — through 
a  mist — sitting  at  his  desk,  emphasizing  his 
points  by  tapping  on  the  desk  with  a  pencil  and 
smiling  at  my  great  distress. 

I  was  bluffed  out.  I  had  nothing  to  say.  I 
have  often  wondered  since  whether  I  should 
have  jumped  in  and  given  him  a  licking  or  taken 
one.  My  conclusion  is  that  I  showed  a  little 
sense  by  keeping  off,  for  I  had  but  a  few  dollars 
and  I  was  in  a  strange  town.  I  didn't  jump  in. 
Instead  I  shouted  incoherently  and  melodramat- 
ically something  about  getting  even  with  him 
and  stumbled  out  into  the  snow  again.  I  sent 
a  wire  to  Tad  telling  him  I  could  do  nothing, 
but  to  keep  on  getting  the  paper  out  until  I  got 
back.  I  arrived  at  the  office  on  the  evening  of 
the  next  day,  to  find  Tad  sitting  on  the  tall  desk 
in  the  corner  thrumming  melancholy  chords  on 
his  guitar. 

I  told  my  story.  We  counted  our  money. 
There  was  less  than  twenty  dollars  between  us. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  101 

My  trip  had  cost  almost  twenty  and  the  twenty- 
five  to  the  lawyer  had  peeled  us  down  to  almost 
nothing.  Tad  had  been  obliged  to  pay  some- 
thing to  the  power  man  and  to  the  rent  man  and 
to  the  paper  man.  Also,  Chet  and  John  had 
demanded  a  few  dollars  each,  saying  they  would 
quit  unless  they  got  it.  The  other  printer  and 
the  pressman  hadn't  been  in.  They  didn't  know 
how  bad  things  were.  We  sat  gloomily  in  the 
darkness.  The  ''Sole  Editors  and  Proprietors'* 
had  been  depressed  into  a  couple  of  heartsick, 
homesick,  hopeless  boys. 

"What '11  we  dor '  I  asked  finally. 

"What  is  there  to  doT'  countered  Tad  de- 
jectedly. 

"Nothing." 

Tad  played  a  few  snatches  of  a  serenade. 

"Chop  it!'*  I  shouted  savagely,  "or  I'll  kick 
that  guitar  into  splinters." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  Tad;  "but  I  always 
resort  to  music  in  times  like  these.  It  has  a 
soothing  effect." 

We  both  laughed. 


102  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

' '  Cheer  up ! '  *  I  said.  ' '  We  '11  wiggle  out  some- 
how. ' ' 

Then  we  talked  it  all  over,  canvassing  every 
possible  place  where  money  might  be  secured, 
coming  back  each  time  to  the  disconcerting 
realization  that  neither  of  us  could  beg,  borrow 
or  steal  a  penny. 

*' Let's  give  the  blamed  thing  to  John,"  sug- 
gested Tad. 

^'What  have  you  got  against  John?"  I  asked. 

There  was  more  talk.  Finally  we  went  to 
our  room  and  went  to  bed.  In  the  morning 
we  walked  down  to  the  office  together.  We  had 
little  to  say,  but  we  were  thinking  the  same 
thing — that  was  how  to  quit.  When  we  reached 
the  office,  the  dingy  office,  with  its  pathetic 
equipment  and  its  miserable  prospects.  Tad 
turned  to  me  and  said: 

''Let's  quit." 

"All  right,"  I  replied — and  that  settled  it. 
Then  the  boy  in  me  came  to  the  surface.  I 
didn't  know  how  we  were  going  to  quit,  but  I 
did  know  I  was  soon  to  be  relieved  of  this  load — 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  103 

and  I  was  happy.  Tad  felt  the  same  way.  We 
kicked  the  door  open  and  strode  into  the  room. 
John  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  grinding  out  his 
local.  Tad  and  I  did  a  dance  around  the  room ; 
and  then,  putting  our  arms  on  one  another's 
shoulders,  we  sang,  with  fine  barber-shop  chords 
and  close  harmony  effects: 

Round  her  neck  she  wore  a  purple  ribbon — 

She  wore  it  in  the  summertime  and  in  the  month  of  May. 
And  when  they  asked  her  why  she  wore  the  ribbon 
She  said  'twas  for  her  lover,  far  away! 
Far  away — far  away! 
Far  away — far  away! 
She  wore  it  for  her  lover,  far  away! 

Then  we  came  in  strong  with  the  trombone 
effect,  ' '  Om-te-da-de ! "  and  wound  up  with  a 
breakdown : 

For  round  her  neck  she  wore  a  purple  ribbon — 
And  she  wore  it  for  her  lover,  far  away! 


104  THE  MAKING  OE  A 


CHAPTER  XII 

John  jumped  up  and  grabbed  his  umbrella 
and  Chet  came  in  with  a  column  rule  in  his  hand. 
They  thought  we  had  gone  crazy.  And  so  we 
had.  We  were  both  so  delighted  to  get  rid  of 
the  load  that  we  danced  and  sang  for  ten  or; 
fifteen  minutes. 

'^ What's  the  matter?"  cried  Chet. 

''The  matter,  Mr.  Chester  White,  of  Poland, 
China,"  yelled  Tad,  grabbing  Chet  by  the  shoul- 
ders and  waltzing  him  round  the  room — ''the 
matter  is  that  this  great  palladium  of  the  liber- 
ties and  organ  of  the  best  thought  of  the  com- 
munity is  about  to  give  up  the  ghost — quit,  sus- 
pend, go  out  of  business,  die  the  death  of  a  dog, 
and  otherwise  have  its  bright  light  extinguished. 
That 's  what 's  the  matter ! ' '  And  we  pulled  the 
astonished  John  and  the  amazed  Chet  into  a 
circle  with  us  and  sang  with  exquisite  tremolo 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  105 

and  chromatic  variations :  ' '  Farewell !  farewell, 
my  own  true  love!" 

"Gimme  some  paper!"  shouted  Tad. 
**  Gimme  some  paper,  until  I  indite  a  few  words 
of  burning  good-bye  to  this  community ! ' '  And 
he  wrot«  an  editorial  which  he  headed,  ''Vale- 
dictory," and  which  closed  with  this  statement: 
"If  the  people  of  this  community  remember  us 
as  long  as  we  shall  remember  them  they  will 
erect  a  monument  to  our  memory." 

"What  becomes  of  usf"  quavered  John. 

"John,"  I  said,  "that  isn^t  the  important 
question.  The  important  question  is,  What  be- 
comes of  us!  You  have  a  palatial  home  here, 
John,  supported  in  regal  style  on  your  munifi- 
cent salary  of  eight  dollars  a  week.  Before  we 
go,  John,  we  shall  pay  you  all  we  owe  you — and 
probably  more — ^money  being  no  object  to  us 
at  the  present  time.  Be  calm,  John;  be  per- 
fectly calm.  Undoubtedly  your  old  boss  will  be 
back  and  he  will  continue  as  the  editorial  staff 
of  this  tribune  of  the  people." 

Chet  took  the  editorial  copy.    "I  was  goin' 


106  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

to  jump  the  burg,  anyhow!'*  he  said.  "We  told 
him  to  quadruple-lead  the  valedictory.  Then 
we  discussed  ways  and  means. 

John  suggested  there  might  be  a  chance  of 
collecting  a  few  dollars  on  some  of  the  adver- 
tising we  had  been  running.  He  thought  there 
were  a  couple  of  accounts  he  could  get  some- 
thing for.  We  gave  John  our  blessing  and 
started  him  out.  Then  we  decided  to  withhold 
the  paper  until  late  in  the  evening,  so  we  could 
get  all  ready  to  leave  by  the  night  train.  That 
gave  us  pause.  Leave  by  the  night  train !  How 
in  thunder  were  we  going  to  leave  by  a  night 
train !  It  took  money  to  ride  on  trains  and  we 
wouldn't  have  any  after  we  had  squared  our 
bills  and  paid  our  help. 

While  we  were  considering  this  the  door 
opened  and  a  young  man  came  in.  "How's 
business?"  he  asked. 

''Rotten!"  we  both  shouted. 

' '  Same  here, ' '  he  said.  Then  he  told  us  he  had 
come  down  from  Chicago  a  time  before  and 
opened  a  broker's  oflSce  for  the  sale  of  stocks 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  107 

and  grain.  He  hadn't  made  a  trade.  He  was 
broke  and  he  was  going  back.  That,  however, 
wasn't  the  object  of  the  meeting.  He  was  a 
telegraph  operator,  of  course,  and  as  he  had 
no  business  to  do  he  listened  to  the  gossip  on 
the  wire.  He  had  taken  off  a  dispatch  that  had 
gone  through  telling  of  the  death  of  Henry 
Ward  Beecher.  He  thought  we  might  like  to 
have  it,  inasmuch  as  he  gathered  we  had  no  wire 
service.  I  grabbed  it,  put  a  scarehead  on  it  and 
put  it  on  the  first  page  of  the  paper  that  night — 
double  leaded.  That  was  the  only  piece  of  real 
telegraph  news  the  "Evening  Eagle"  had  dur- 
ing the  time  the  "Sole  Editors  and  Proprietors" 
were  editing  and  proprietoring. 

John  came  back  presently.  He  had  scraped 
up  seventeen  dollars.  We  put  this  with  our 
pile  and  paid  off.  We  had  to  pay  the  plate  man 
when  he  came  round,  but  we  decided  to  use 
only  the  paper  we  had  on  hand,  which  would 
print  about  two  hundred  copies  of  the  paper.  I 
took  a  few  to  make  my  file  complete  and  so  did 
Tad ;  and  when  the  newsboys  came  we  told  them 


108  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

to  come  back  at  six  o  'clock,  that  we  had  had  an 
accident  to  our  press.  When  we  did  let  the 
paper  loose  we  gave  the  entire  edition  to  the 
boys  and  told  them  to  go  out  and  sell  what  they 
could  and  keep  the  change. 

Tad  had  been  rummaging  in  the  desks.  Sud- 
denly he  let  out  a  whoop.  *'Hi!"  he  shouted. 
"Here's  luck!  Here  are  parts  of  mileage  books 
our  friend  left  behind." 

We  examined  the  books  with  great  interest. 
We  figured  them  out  by  the  aid  of  timetables. 
With  one  we  could  go  as  far  as  Sioux  City,  Iowa, 
and  with  the  other  as  far  as  Detroit. 

*' Which  way  do  you  want  to  go?"  I  asked 
Tad. 

"I  don't  mind,"  he  answered. 

Neither  did  I.  Sioux  City  looked  exactly  as 
good  to  me  as  Detroit,  which  wasn't  very  good 
at  that.  We  discussed  this  proposition  for  a 
time.  Tad  didn't  want  to  make  a  decision,  nor 
did  I.  Eeally,  it  was  immaterial — except  that 
Tad  said  he  knew  a  man  in  Sioux  City  whom  he 
might  borrow  a  few  dollars  from  until  he  got 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  109 

on  his  feet.  They  had  been  school  friends  and 
Tad  thought  he  was  in  the  coal  business.  That 
being  the  case,  I  insisted  Tad  should  take  the 
Sioux  City  book,  for  I  knew  nobody  there,  nor 
in  Detroit;  and  I  might  just  as  well  land  in 
one  place  as  the  other,  inasmuch  as  I  should  be 
without  money,  practically.  Tad  wouldn't  have 
it  that  way. 

*' Let's  jeff  for  it,"  he  suggested. 

"All  right." 

JeflSng  is  a  game  played  with  type,  a  printer  *s 
method  of  gambling  when  nothing  else  is  handy. 
We  went  out  and  got  the  type  and  jeffed,  best 
two  out  of  three.  Tad  won.  He  took  the  Sioux 
City  book  and  that  left  me  the  Detroit  one.  So 
that  was  settled. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on  we  paid  our  bills 
round  town,  paid  the  landlady  and  the  boarding- 
house  keeper  and  packed  our  trunks.  I  sent 
mine  back  to  the  city  from  which  we  came,  by 
express,  and  Tad  checked  his  to  Sioux  City. 
When  everybody  was  paid  we  had  but  a  few 
dollars  left.    These  we  divided  equally. 


110  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

Then  we  gave  the  word  to  the  pressman  and 
the  last  edition  of  the  ''Evening  Eagle,"  under 
the  sole  proprietorship  and  editorial  manage- 
ment of  two  hoys  who  at  the  moment  had  about 
twelve  dollars  in  capital,  was  issued.  We  read 
Tad^s  valedictory  with  much  interest.  We 
thought  it  looked  pretty  good.  It  was  in  the 
seventh  issue  under  our  management. 

When  we  had  given  the  boys  their  papers  we 
shook  hands  with  John  and  Chet,  locked  the 
door  and  solemnly  threw  the  key  into  a  gully 
that  ran  near  the  office.  We  walked  down  the 
street  and  did  not  turn  to  look  back  at  the  scene 
of  our  failure.  I  have  never  known  what  be- 
came of  the  ''Evening  Eagle.''  I  don't  know 
whether  the  man  who  sold  it  came  back  and 
took  it,  whether  the  sheriff  got  it,  or  whether 
the  plant  rusted  out  where  it  was.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  paper  was  continued,  or  by 
whom  if  it  was.  I  don't  know  what  happened 
and  I  have  never  cared  to  hear  about  it. 

The  only  communication  I  ever  had  from  that 
place  since  then  came  a  few  weeks  later.     It 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  111 

was  from  John,  and  he  accused  me  of  taking  his 
old,  faded  mnbrella  away  with  me.  Six  months 
later  I  heard  from  Tad.  He  had  a  job  running 
a  coal  and  wood  office  on  the  outskirts  of  Sioux 
City.  Later  he  studied  medicine  and  now  is  a 
big  doctor  in  an  Eastern  city. 

The  trains  left  almost  at  the  same  time  that 
night.  We  stayed  round  the  hotel  until  time 
to  go.  Then  we  spent  half  a  dollar  each  to 
ride  up  to  the  station  in  a  hotel  hack.  There 
was  another  passenger.  He  was  a  jewelry  sales- 
man who,  as  he  said,  "was  beating  it  out  of 
this  burg."  He  had  done  no  business.  We 
didn't  know  what  our  friend  who  sold  us  the 
paper  might  try  to  do,  so  we  said  nothing  about 
ourselves.  We  knew  we  should  be  out  of  the 
state  in  the  morning  and  safe  from  him,  at  any 
rate.  I  never  did  go  back  in  that  state  for  seven 
years.  On  the  way  up  to  the  train  the  jewelry 
salesman  told  us  that  some  big  railroad  shops 
had  recently  been  moved  from  the  city,  giving 
the  place  a  bad  crimp.  That  was  another  indus- 
trial fact  we  had  neglected  to  inform  ourselves 


112  THE  MAKING  OF  A 

about  before  we  made  our  plunge.  Still,  our 
misfortunes  were  not  the  fault  of  the  people. 
They  were  kind  and  hospitable  and  encourag- 
ing. They  treated  us  well.  The  trouble  was 
that  we  were  two  visionary  young  fools,  who 
started  on  a  ten-thousand-dollar  adventure  with, 
about  four  hundred  dollars  in  real  money.  We 
deserved  all  we  got. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  113 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I  bade  Tad  good-bye  when  my  train  came  in 
and  climbed  aboard.  We  had  figured  the  mile- 
age correctly.  It  lasted  to  Detroit.  Then  the 
conductor  firmly  told  me  he  would  have  to  have 
money  or  another  ticket.  Inasmuch  as  I  had 
no  ticket  and  little  money,  I  got  off  to  think 
the  problem  over.  It  was  a  cold  morning,  colder 
than  any  other  morning  I  have  ever  known,  I 
think,  looking  back  at  it;  and  the  people  of 
Detroit  didn't  seem  interested  in  my  affairs  at 
all.  I  went  uptown  and  made  the  rounds  of 
the  newspaper  offices,  thinking  to  get  a  job. 
There  were  no  jobs.  At  least,  there  was  na 
job  for  me,  as  various  city  editors  told  me 
variously. 

I  had  a  big  Irish  frieze  ulster  I  had  bought 
early  in  the  winter.  It  saved  my  life,  for  I 
economized  on  food.    As  I  wandered  round  De- 

8 — Newspaper  Man. 


114  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

troit   I   came   on   a   ticket-scalper's    office.     I 
counted  my  money  again.     This  wasn't  neces- 
sary, for  I  knew  how  much  I  had.    It  was  less 
than  five  dollars.     I  decided  to  go  to  Buffalo, 
for  I  had  a  friend  there  who  would  give  me 
enough  for  a  ticket  home.    I  was  sure  of  that. 
My  shoes  were  good  and  I  spent  half  a  dollar 
for  a  pair  of  arctic  overshoes  at  a  second-hand 
store.    I  figured  I  would  ride  two  dollars'  worth 
and  walk  the  rest  of  the  way.    I  took  some  stuff 
out  of  my  grip  and  checked  the  grip  in  the  rail- 
road station,  thinking  to  send  for  it  when  I 
was  in  funds.    That  didn't  cost  anything.    The 
man  said  I  should  pay  when  I  got  it  out.     I 
never  got  it  out.    It  may  be  there  yet  for  all 
I  know.    I  stowed  my  stuff  away  in  my  pockets 
and  then  went  back  to  the  scalper's  office.    He 
had  a  ticket  over  the  Grand  Trunk,  good  as  far 
as  London,  Ontario.     He  wanted  two  dollars 
and  a  half  for  it.     I  inquired  and  found  the 
regular  fare  was  about  three  dollars  and  a  half, 
as  I  remembered  it.    It  may  have  been  more  or 
less  than  that.     Anyhow,  it  was  more  than  I 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  115 

wanted  to  pay,  and  I  went  back  to  the  scalper 
and  offered  him  two  dollars  for  his  ticket  to 
London.    He  sold  it  to  me. 

The  train  left  about  half  past  ten,  but  I  sat 
in  the  station  for  several  hours  before  that  time. 
It  was  warm  there.  When  the  train  pulled  out 
I  had  a  comfortable  seat  in  the  smoking  car, 
though  I  had  nothing  to  smoke.  Money  was 
too  precious  to  be  wasted  on  such  luxuries.  The 
conductor  looked  at  my  ticket  for  a  long  time. 
My  heart  was  sick  with  fear  that  he  would  re- 
ject it  and  put  me  off  the  train.  Finally  he 
punched  it  and  passed  on.  One  of  the  dreams 
that  comes  back  to  frighten  me  even  now  is  a 
vision  of  that  conductor — big,  bearded,  red- 
faced,  standing  with  a  lantern  under  his  arm 
turning  that  ticket  over  and  over  and  looking 
quizzically  at  me.  Suppose  he  had  rejected  it ! 
The  thought  scares  me  stiff  yet. 

The  train  ran  a  little  late  and  it  was  five 
o  'clock  in  the  morning  when  the  brakeman  sang 
out:  *' London!  All  out  for  London!  Ten  min- 
utes for  refreshments. ' '   That  meant  me,  though 


116  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

I  had  no  idea  of  getting  any  refreshments  at 
that  particular  time.  I  had  slept  a  little  and 
was  feeling  pretty  fit.  I  climbed  down  and  fol- 
lowed the  crowd  into  the  station.  At  one  end 
of  the  big  waiting  room  there  was  a  lunch 
counter.  Most  of  the  passengers  made  dives  for 
that  and  ordered  coffee  and  doughnuts  or  pie. 
I  went  over  to  take  a  look. 

One  sleepy  man  was  in  charge.  He  was  busy 
attending  to  the  wants  of  the  passengers.  I 
noticed  that  the  sandwiches  and  doughnuts  and 
apples  and  cakes  were  piled  on  plates  near  the 
edge  of  the  counter  and  that  at  regular  intervals 
there  were  little  round  apple  pies — nice-looking 
little  round  apple  pies — all  brown  on  top  and, 
where  the  juice  had  seeped  through  the  edges, 
that  beloved  shiny  black  that  I  knew  would  taste 
so  well.  I  fingered  my  few  coins.  Those  apple 
pies  tempted  me.    And  I  fell. 

I  edged  in  here  and  there  among  the  passen- 
gers and  turned  sideways  to  the  counter.  Then, 
at  an  opportune  moment,  I  slipped  off  an  apple 
pie  into  the  big  side  pocket  of  my  ulster.     I 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  117 

waited  a  minute.  Nobody  had  seen  me — and 
I  edged  in  again.  Before  the  conductor  called, 
^' All  aboard !"  I  had  five  pies  in  my  ulster  pock- 
ets— five  nice  little  brown  apple  pies — and  a 
couple  of  doughnuts.  Of  course  I  stole  the  pies. 
That  crime  hung  heavy  over  me  for  years ;  but 
once,  a  long  tune  later,  when  I  was  up  that  way 
on  a  story  I  went  into  that  station  and  handed 
the  astonished  lunch-counter  man  half  a  dollar. 
I  told  him  it  was  conscience  money.  He  thought 
I  was  crazy  and  said  so,  but  he  didn't  give  back 
the  half  dollar!  I  imagine  the  company  didn't 
get  it  either. 

I  stood  on  the  platform  and  watched  the  pas- 
sengers get  aboard.  The  train  pulled  out.  I 
watched  it  as  far  as  I  could  see  the  rear  lights. 
I  reckon  I  was  the  loneliest  boy  in  the  world 
at  that  moment!  There  I  was  in  London,  On- 
tario, with  about  two  dollars  in  my  pocket  and 
a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  the  nearest  place 
where  I  could  get  any  more!  I  was  too  proud 
to  telegraph  home  and  I  resolved  to  walk  in. 
Walk  in !    It  was  in  March,  cold  and  snowy.    I 


118  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

knew  all  that ;  but  I  was  young  and  strong,  and 
thought  I  could  manage  somehow.  My  ulster 
would  protect  me,  and  I  figured  I  could  make 
fifteen  miles  a  day  and  get  there  inside  of  two 
weeks.  Besides,  I  had  five  apple  pies  for  sus- 
tenance and,  if  worst  came  to  worst,  could  spend 
a  dime  or  so  for  food  or  lodging. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  119 


CHAPTER  Xiy 

I  turned  back  into  the  station.  The  night  man 
looked  at  me  suspiciously.  I  felt  again  just  as 
I  had  felt  when  the  conductor  scrutinized  my 
ticket.  Heavens !  I  thought — if  he  should  know 
about  those  apple  pies !  He  didn't,  though.  He 
asked  me  what  I  wanted. 

'*I  want  to  stay  here  in  the  station  until  morn- 
ing,'^ I  explained  hurriedly.  ^^The  family  I 
am  going  to  visit  expected  me  last  night,  but  I 
was  delayed  and  I  don't  want  to  go  up  to  the 
house  until  morning.  Please  let  me  sit  here. 
I  won't  bother  anybody." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  me  out,  but  I 
pleaded  with  him  so  earnestly  he  finally  said : 

''All  right,  kid.  Make  yourself  comfortable. 
It's  against  the  rules,  but  I'll  chance  it.  Only 
you'll  have  to  get  out  early  in  the  morning,  be- 
fore the  day  man  comes  on." 


120  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

The  day  man  came  on  at  seven  o'clock,  when 
it  was  still  dark — and  still  cold,  I  may  say.  He 
made  no  move  to  shove  me  out  and  I  stayed 
on,  finally  persuading  myself  I  had  a  right  to 
be  there,  inasmuch  as  I  was  waiting  for  a  morn- 
ing train.  Presently  the  train  came  in.  I  didn't 
go  on  with  it,  of  course;  then  I  bought  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  started  down  the  track.  On  the 
w^y  I  ate  my  first  apple  pie.  Coffee  and  then 
apple  pie  may  not  be  the  idea  of  a  food  faddist 
for  breakfast,  but  it  hit  me  as  being  a  most  ex- 
cellent combination.  Also,  as  I  walked  down 
the  track  through  London,  I  arrived  at  the  wise 
<;onclusion  that  I  must  conserve  my  food  re- 
sources or  go  hungry  later  in  the  coming  days. 

Ingersoll  is  nineteen  miles  from  London  and 
I  thought  I  might  be  able  to  get  there  that  day. 
I  started  in  good  form  and  by  noon  had  reached 
a.  place  called  Waubuno.  Then  I  ate  another 
apple  pie.  It  didn't  taste  so  good  as  the  one 
I  had  for  breakfast,  so  I  put  in  one  of  my  dough- 
nuts also.  That  helped  a  lot,  and  I  started  off 
for  Ingersoll   like   a  professional  pedestrian. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  121 

My  greatest  trouble  was  with  my  ulster.  It  was 
very  heavy.  If  I  took  it  off  and  carried  it  I 
became  too  cold,  notwithstanding  the  exertion 
of  walking;  and  if  I  kept  it  on  I  was  too  hot. 
I  compromised  by  taking  my  arms  out  of  my 
sleeves  and  letting  it  swing  on  my  shoulders. 
Before  I  reached  Waubuno  I  thought  that  ulster 
weighed  a  hundred  pounds;  but  three  miles 
the  other  side  of  Waubuno  it  began  increasing 
in  weight  until  it  weighed  a  ton.  I  wanted  to 
throw  it  away,  but  knew  I  should  freeze  if  I 
did.  I  lightened  my  load  by  discarding  most 
of  the  things  I  had  kept  out  of  my  grip. 

The  last  five  or  six  miles  to  Ingersoll  were 
slow  and  painful.  My  feet  began  to  hurt.  My 
arctic  overshoes,  for  which  I  had  spent  half  a 
dollar  in  Detroit,  were  holding  out  pretty  well, 
but  they  were  uncomfortably  warm  at  times. 
Still,  the  track  was  fairly  clear  and  the  trains 
not  frequent ;  I  plugged  along  until,  about  seven 
o'clock,  I  got  into  Ingersoll.  I  had  been  ten 
hours  making  nineteen  miles  and  was  very  tired 
and  very  hungry — and  I  had  no  place  to  sleep 


122  THE   MAILING   OF   A 

in  sight  and  no  food  save  an  apple  pie.  I 
walked  through  the  town.  The  most  hospitable 
place  I  saw  was  a  livery  stable,  where  a  man 
was  cleaning  some  horses.  I  asked  if  I  might 
sit  down  by  his  fire  for  a  time.  He  said  I 
could.  When  he  had  finished  his  horses  he  came 
in  and  we  talked  for  an  hour.  He  was  a  middle- 
aged  man,  smelling  strongly  of  horses ;  and  he 
told  me  he  slept  in  a  room  boarded  off  from  the 
hayloft  upstairs  in  the  livery  barn, 

I  was  so  tired  and  sleepy  my  eyes  kept  clos- 
ing and  my  head  dropping  on  my  chest. 
Finally,  about  nine  o'clock,  he  punched  me  and 
said: 

"Say,  boy,  I'm  going  to  bed.  Where  are  yon 
going  to  sleep?" 

**I  don't  know,"  I  answered. 

"Haven't  you  got  any  money?" 

"Not  much,"  I  told  him,  and  then  let  him 
have  my  whole  story. 

"Come  on  up  with  me,"  he  urged.  "I  ain't 
got  much  of  a  place,  but  you're  welcome." 

He  took  me  up  to  his  room.    It  was  a  small 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  123 

room,  with  two  bunks  in  it  built  against  the  side 
of  the  wall.  I  turned  in  in  the  upper  bunk, 
clothes  on  except  my  ulster  and  shoes,  pulled 
the  blankets  over  me  and  was  asleep  in  half  a 
minute.  He  poked  me  out  next  morning  at  six 
o^clock.  "Come  on  down  and  help  me  do  the 
chores,"  he  said,  *'and  I'll  try  to  find  you  some 
breakfast." 

When  I  tried  to  put  on  my  shoes  I  found  that 
walking  nineteen  miles  through  the  snow  over 
a  railroad  track  was  not  so  easy  a  task  as  I  had 
thought  it.  My  feet  were  swollen  and  painful, 
and  I  had  hard  work  jabbing  them  into  my 
shoes.  I  hobbled  down  and,  after  he  had  told 
me  how  to  hold  a  pitchfork,  helped  him  with  his 
work.  He  went  out  about  eight  and  came  back 
with  a  bucketful  of  coffee  and  some  bread  and 
slices  of  cold  meat.  I  ate  ravenously,  thinking 
to  conserve  my  pies,  which  I  had  examined  that 
morning  and  found  to  be  in  fair  state  of  preser- 
vation. 

He  told  me  Woodstock  was  the  next  town  of 
any  size;    and,  by  looking  at  my  timetable,  I 


124  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

found  it  was  nine  miles  farther  along.  About 
ten  o  'clock  I  started.  The  day  was  bright  and 
sunshiny  and  the  snow  had  thawed  a  little;  so 
the  walking  was  diflScult.  My  feet  hurt  too. 
The  weight  of  the  ulster  was  unbearable;  so 
I  took  it  off  and  made  a  sort  of  a  pack  of  it 
with  the  belt,  and  carried  it  suspended  from  my 
left  shoulder.  Half  a  dozen  times  I  was  on  the 
point  of  throwing  the  ulster  away,  but  I  had 
sense  enough  to  keep  it.  That  was  about  the 
first  time  I  had  a  glimmer  of  sense  since  I  de- 
cided to  go  into  journalism  for  myself.  That 
ulster  kept  me  from  freezing  half  a  dozen  times. 
I  crawled  along  the  track,  passing  one  or  two 
little  places  where  the  men  who  were  in  sight 
looked  at  me  in  a  way  that  said  to  me  plainly: 
*' There's  a  tramp  that  ought  to  be  arrested.'* 
Nobody  molested  me  and  I  hobbled  into  Wood- 
stock long  after  dark.  It  had  taken  me  all  day 
to  walk  nine  miles.  At  that  rate  I  would  get  to 
Buffalo  along  in  April  sometime.  I  thought. 
Woodstock  is  a  nice  little  town,  but  there  are 
not  many  people  on  the  streets  on  cold  March 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  125 

nights.  I  walked  up  and  down  the  main  street — 
I  have  forgotten  its  name,  but  I  suppose  it  was 
King  Street,  or  High  Street ;  most  of  them  are 
— looking  for  a  place  where  I  could  buy  some 
food  for  little  money.  I  had  eaten  two  of  my 
pies  during  the  day.  The  idea  of  eating  another 
pie  for  supper  made  me  ill.  I  had  but  one  left 
and  was  on  the  point  of  throwing  that  away, 
but  thought  better  of  it  and  kept  it. 

I  went  into  a  hotel  barroom  and  asked  a  man 
I  found  there  if  there  was  a  good,  cheap  res- 
taurant in  town.  He  directed  me  to  a  place 
down  the  street  and  I  got  a  beef  stew  for  fif- 
teen cents  that  was  hot,  filling  and,  without 
any  doubt,  the  best  dish  I  have  ever  tasted  in 
my  life.  Then  the  sleep  problem  came.  I 
needed  sleep  more  than  I  did  food.  I  could 
walk  no  more.  Each  foot  felt  as  big  as  a  pump- 
kin and  as  hot  as  a  basebumer  stove. 

The  waitress  in  the  restaurant  told  me  there 
was  a  hotel  on  one  of  the  side  streets  where  I 
could  get  a  good  bed  for  fifty  cents,  provided 
I  had  the  fifty.     I  should  have  to  pay  in  ad- 


126  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

vance,  she  said,  for  I  didn't  look  very  respect- 
able or  overburdened  with  money.  I  went  down 
to  the  hotel.  It  was  a  clean-looking  place,  but 
the  man  in  the  office  was  the  grimmest-looking 
person  I  ever  saw.  My  heart  sank  as  I  walked 
up  to  the  desk. 

''Can  I  get  a  room  here?"  I  asked. 

''You  can,"  he  said  with  a  broad  Scotch  burr 
in  his  speech,  "if  you  have  the  money." 

"How  much  is  it?" 

"Fifty  cents." 

I  fingered  my  coins.  Fifty  cents  would  make 
a  big  hole  in  my  resources. 

"Can't  you  put  me  in  some  back  room — any 
sort  of  a  room — anywhere?"  I  asked  desper- 
ately— "and  only  charge  me  a  quarter?  You 
see,"  I  explained  tremulously,  "I  haven't  got 
much  money  and  I  have  just  got  to  sleep.  I'm 
in  a  hard  fix;  and  I'll  send  the  other  quarter  to 
you  as  soon  as  I  get  to  Buffalo.  Please, 
mister!" 

He  looked  at  me  coldly.  "This  is  no  place 
for  tramps!"  he  said. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  127 

**I'm  no  tramp!"  I  argued.  ''Indeed,  I  am 
not.  I'm  in  hard  luck,  but  I'm  not  a  tramp. 
Come  on,  now,  and  be  a  good  fellow.  I'll  do 
any  kind  of  work  you  want  me  to  to  make  up 
that  other  twenty-five  cents. ' ' 

** Where  will  you  be  getting  your  breakfast?'* 
he  asked,  with  some  show  of  interest. 

"I  don't  know  or  care.  Please  let  me  have 
abed.    That's  all  I  ask." 

He  looked  at  me  steadily  for  a  minute  or 
two.  I  must  have  been  a  woebegone  spectacle. 
Then  he  asked,  rather  irrelevantly,  I  thought: 

'What  is  your  business?" 

"I'm  a  newspaper  reporter,"  and  I  blurted 
out  the  whole  story  of  my  misfortunes.  He  had 
heard  of  newspaper  reporters  and,  on  the  whole, 
considered  them  a  bad  lot.  One  had  come  down 
from  Hamilton  once  to  look  into  the  sale  of  some 
land  he  was  interested  in  and  had  not  impressed 
him  favorably.  Still,  I  might  be  different;  and 
I  looked  honest.  I  thought  of  the  apple  pie  in 
my  ulster  pocket  and  blushed  with  guilt. 

"Can  ye  write  a  letter?"  he  asked. 


128  THE   MAKING    OF   A 

Could  I  write  a  letter !  I  assured  Mm  I  was 
the  correspondence  king.  I  probably  was  the 
best  letterwriter  in  the  world.  Then  he  told 
me  he  had  a  long  and  important  letter  to  write 
that  was  worrying  him.  It  concerned  a  fanil 
he  owned  in  the  back  country  and  if  I  would 
promise  to  talk  with  him  and  get  his  ideas  and 
write  the  letter  in  the  morning  he  would  give 
me  a  bed  for  twenty-five  cents. 

I  know  I  cried  a  little  from  sheer  joy  when 
he  told  me  that.  A  bed,  at  that  time,  seemed 
to  me  the  acme  of  human  desire!  He  led  me 
up  on  the  third  floor  and  showed  me  a  good, 
clean  bed  in  a  little  room.  I  was  asleep  in  five 
minutes.    But,  Heavens!  how  my  feet  hurt! 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  129 


CHAPTER  XV 

He  rapped  me  up  before  seven  o'clock  next 
morning.  ''Come  down  and  Jhave  a  bite  of 
breakfast  before  we  begin, ' '  he  said.  I  hurried 
through  that  toilet  like  a  man  who  has  but  five 
minutes  to  get  off  a  sleeping  car.  They  gave 
me  oatmeal,  and  bacon  and  eggs^  and  coffee,  and 
great  slices  of  wonderful  bread  and  new,  sweet 
butter.  It  was  a  feast!  I  ate  until  J  was 
ashamed.  Then  I  went  out  to  the  office  and  we 
took  up  the  work  of  the  letter.  He  told  m© 
what  he  wanted  to  say  and  I  made  a  draft  of 
it  for  him.  That  didn't  suit  him  and  I  made 
another.  Finally  I  got  it  as  he  wanted  it  and 
wrote  it  as  plainly  as  I  could  for  him  to  copy. 
By  this  time  it  was  noon  and  he  gave  me  my 
dinner  and  told  me  I  had  better  stay  until  the 
following  morning.  I  rested  all  that  day,  had 
a   great   sleep   at  night   and   another   corking 

9 — Newspaper  Man. 


130  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

breakfast.  When  I  tried  to  pay  liim  fifty  cents 
for  the  two  nights'  lodging  he  wouldn't  take  it. 
He  said  my  letter  had  earned  it;  and  he  told 
me  how  to  make  a  crosscut  that  would  save 
me  some  walking  and  get  me  into  Paris  that 
night,  nineteen  miles  by  the  railroad  track. 
Some  years  later,  when  I  had  money,  I  bought 
and  sent  to  that  man  the  finest  brier  pipe  I 
could  find  in  New  York,  reminding  him  of  the 
circumstances;  and  his  scrawled  letter  of 
acknowledgment  is  one  of  my  treasures. 

As  I  started  to  Paris  I  took  stock.  I  had 
accomplished  twenty-eight  miles  and  had  spent 
twenty  cents  of  my  money.  It  was  a  cold,  crisp 
morning ;  my  feet  felt  better  and  I  was  reason- 
ably cheerful.  I  tried  the  road  my  landlord 
told  me  of,  but  found  the  walking  not  so  good 
as  on  the  track  and  soon  went  back  to  the  rail- 
road. At  noon  I  ate  my  last  apple  pie.  I  had 
had  a  respite  and  it  tasted  very  good,  though 
its  long  stay  in  my  ulster  pocket  imparted  a 
sort  of  a  clothy  flavor  that  didn't  help  it  any. 

Those  nineteen  miles  to  Paris  were  long  and 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  131 

weary,  especially  as  the  only  food  I  had  was 
the  apple  pie.  It  must  have  been  nine  o'clock 
when  I  got  in.  A  railroad  section  man  let  me 
bunk  with  him  and  gave  me  a  big  sandwich  of 
corned  beef  and  thick  bread.  I  got  a  cup  of 
coffee  and  two  biscuits  for  breakfast  and  started 
for  Brantford,  eight  miles  away.  By  this  lime 
I  looked  like  a  tramp.  My  face  was  covered 
with  a,  bright-red  stubble  of  a  beard ;  my  trous- 
ers were  tied  round  my  ankles  with  heavy 
string;  my  overshoes  were  badly  scuffed  out, 
and  I  was  much  wrinkled  and  mussed.  How- 
ever, by  wearing  my  ulster  when  I  was  near  a 
village  and  pulling  my  hat  down  over  my  eyes, 
I  managed  to  get  through  without  trouble  until 
I  reached  Brantford. 

At  Brantford  a  constable  nailed  me.  He  said 
tramps  were  his  special  meat  and  he  was  con- 
vinced he  had  a  fine  specimen  in  me.  I  didn't 
blame  him  any;  but  I  talked  him  out  of  taking 
me  to  the  lockup  and  got  on  such  good  terms 
with  him  that  he  told  me  of  a  hayloft  filled  with 
hay,  where  I  might  get  in  and  sleep.     Brant- 


132  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

ford,  it  seemed,  had  no  accommodations  for 
young  gentlemen  of  the  road  like  myself.  Nor 
was  there  any  place  to  get  anything  to  eat.  I 
was  faint  with  hunger,  but  I  crawled  into  the 
hay,  buried  myself  to  the  neck  and  was  soon 
asleep.  The  man  who  owned  the  barn  came  in 
early  next  morning,  carrying  a  tin  pail.  He 
fussed  round  on  the  ground  floor  of  the  bam 
for  a  time  and  then  went  out.  I  slid  down  the 
ladder,  grabbed  the  pail  and  vanished.  I 
thought  it  might  be  his  dinner  bucket.  When 
I  got  a  mile  away  I  opened  the  pail.  I  had 
guessed  correctly.  There  was  a  chunk  of  boiled 
beef,  some  bread  and  butter  and  a  wedge  of 
apple  pie.     I  threw  the  pie  away. 

It  was  twenty-four  miles  to  Hamilton,  a  city 
of  considerable  size,  and  it  took  me  two  days 
to  make  it.  The  food  in  the  dinner  pail  kept 
me  going  all  that  day;  and  at  night  a  farmer 
let  me  sleep  in  his  house  and  gave  me  some 
soggy  potatoes  and  fried  salt  pork  and  tea  for 
breakfast,  for  fifty  cents.  I  surreptitiously 
slipped  a  few  slices  of  the  fried  pork  into  my 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  133 

coat  pocket  and  later  transferred  them  to  my 
ulster  pocket.  That  ulster  pocket  was  my  com- 
missary. The  fried  pork  held  me  until  I 
reached  Hamilton,  where  I  was  extremely  wary 
about  railroad  detectives  in  the  railroad  yards. 
I  figured  that  I  must  be  somewhat  presentable 
in  that  city,  for  I  hoped  to  find  a  way  to  get 
some  money.  I  found  a  barber  shop  near  the 
station,  got  a  shave  for  ten  cents  and  turned 
my  collar.  Then  I  buttoned  my  ulster  round 
my  neck,  threw  away  the  remains  of  my  over- 
shoes and  swaggered  into  the  station,  I  had  a 
look  at  myself  in  the  glass,  and,  though  my 
clothes  were  somewhat  rumpled,  I  didn't  look 
so  badly.  And  I  was  almost  eighty  miles  on 
my  way. 

There  was  a  lunch  counter  in  the  Hamilton 
station.  It  was  more  ornate  than  the  one  at 
London,  but  it  had  the  same  sorts  of  sand- 
wiches on  it,  the  same  doughnuts,  the  same 
cakes  and  the  same  apple  pies!  An  apple-pie 
Nemesis  had  me  in  her  fell  clutches.  A  train 
came  in.     The  passengers  crowded  up  to  the 


134  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

lunch  counter.  I  edged  in  and  edged  out.  When 
the  train  was  called  I  had  edged  in  and  edged 
out  four  times — and  I  had  six  nice  little  brown 
apple  pies  in  my  ulster  pockets !  I  tried  to  get 
some  sandwiches,  but  they  were  covered  with 
paper  and  stuck,  though  the  apple  pies  slid 
into  my  pockets  easily.  I  guess  I  was  calloused 
by  that  time,  a  hardened  apple-pie  burglar,  for 
I  never  did  try  to  pay  them  back  for  that  lot. 

It  is  in  the  neighborhood  of  forty-five  miles 
from  Hamilton  to  Niagara  Falls.  It  took  me 
four  days  to  make  that  trip,  and  I  had  the  hard- 
est time  of  the  outing.  It  grew  very  cold.  I 
had  to  sleep  in  a  straw  stack  one  night.  They 
arrested  me  in  St.  Catharine's,  but  the  judge 
turned  out  to  be  my  friend.  He  wore  a  Masonic 
charm  on  his  watch-chain.  I  wasn't  a  Mason, 
of  course,  being  less  than  nineteen  at  the  time, 
but  my  father  was;  and  I  told  hira  that,  and 
told  hira  so  convincingly  that  he  not  only  let 
me  go,  but  lent  me  a  dollar  besides. 

I  ate  those  six  nice  little  brown  apple  pies 
in  the  course  of  those  four  terrible  days,  and 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  135 

not  much  else ;  for  I  was  saving  my  money  for 
a  shave  and  a  clean  collar  and  a  general  clean-up 
at  the  Falls  and  a  ride  in.  I  didn't  know  just 
how  I  could  do  all  that  for  a  dollar-eighty,  but 
I  had  hopes.  I  ate  those  six  nice  little  brown 
apple  pies;  and  for  ten  years  after  that  I 
couldn't  look  an  apple  pie  in  the  face. 

My  experiences  along  the  road  had  taught  me 
to  go  into  towns  by  the  back  streets  and  I  came 
into  Niagara  Falls  in  just  that  way.  I  escaped 
the  police  on  the  Canadian  side,  got  over  the 
bridge  all  right  and  walked  down  to  take  my 
first  near  view  of  the  American  Falls.  I  was 
standing  on  the  parapet  watching  the  Falls  and 
wondering  how  much  it  cost  to  go  to  Buffalo  by 
train,  when  I  felt  a  tap  on  my  shoulder.  "Po- 
lice!" I  thought;  and  as  I  turned  I  exclaimed, 
*' Please,  sir,  I  haven't  been  doing  anything!" 

The  man  who  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder 
laughed.  He  was  a  man  from  my  home  town 
who  was  a  consul  at  Clifton.  He  happened  to 
be  in  Niagara  Falls,  saw  me  on  the  street  and 
followed  me. 


1S6  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

*' What's  the  matter T'  he  asked. 

I  told  him.  Three  hours  later  I  started  for 
Buffalo,  bathed,  shaved,  with  new  linen  and 
ilew  shoes — and  with  enough  money  in  my 
pocket  to  get  me  home.  Four  days  after  I  got 
home  my  mother  died. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  137 


CHAPTER  XVI 

As  soon  as  possible  I  began  looking  for  an- 
other place.  I  went  down  to  see  my  former 
city  editor,  but  neither  he  nor  the  managing 
editor  displayed  any  enthusiasm  about  having 
me  rejoin  the  staff.  They  told  me  I  had  been 
a  fool  to  quit  and  go  off  on  a  wild-goose  chase 
after  editorial  fame  and  fortune  the  way  I  did, 
and  I  knew  they  were  right,  although  I  didn't 
care  for  their  method  of  imparting  the  truth 
to  me.  I  visited  all  the  other  city  editors  in 
the  place,  but  apparently  I  had  not  sufficiently 
impressed  myself  on  the  journalism  of  that 
locality  to  make  it  imperative  to  secure  my  serv- 
ices; in  fact,  they  all  said  they  could  worry 
along  without  me,  and  they  all  did. 

I  was  then  nineteen,  had  learned  a  bitter  les- 
son, and  was  anxious  to  return  into  the  business 
at  whatever  salary  might  be  offered.    I  looked 


138  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

back  at  the  days  when  I  had  received  ten  dol- 
lars a  week  and  thought  that  a  princely  income. 
Papers  in  two  or  three  other  cities  in  the  state 
wanted  men,  I  heard,  and  I  applied,  but  soon 
learned  they  didn^t  need  me.  I  knew  I  could  do 
as  good  work  as  half  the  men  on  these  papers,  if 
not  better,  but  I  couldn't  make  anybody  else 
think  so.  Besides,  it  was  summertime  and  they 
were  letting  out  men — they  said — instead  of 
taking  them  on.  Nobody  on  earth  appeared  to 
have  the  slightest  desire  for  my  valuable  serv- 
ices. I  tried  applying  by  letter — speaking  en- 
thusiastically about  my  capabilities  and  vast  ex- 
perience— all  the  way  from  Portland,  Oregon, 
to  Portland,  Maine,  and  didn't  get  a  rise. 

Hence  I  turned  my  attention  to  general  litera- 
ture. I  essayed  fiction,  poetry,  special  articles 
and  all  other  branches  of  that  fascinating  pur- 
suit. One  periodical  took  a  story,  promised 
me  ten  dollars  and  didn't  pay.  After  a  few 
weeks  I  concluded  there  was  no  nourishment  in 
that,  so  with  a  couple  of  friends  I  built  a  shack 
in  the  woods  on  the  shore  of  a  lake  a  few  miles 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  139 

from  home  and  went  out  there  to  spend  the 
summer  and  think  things  over.  Foraging  was 
good,  the  fish  bit  well  and  the  problem  of  living 
was  easily  solved.  After  long  reflection  I  con- 
cluded I  was  a  dub  and  might  just  as  well  live 
out  my  life  in  that  shack  as  a  hermit.  I  planned 
it  to  the  last  detail.  It  was  manifestly  impos- 
sible to  be  a  hermit  that  summer,  for  the  other 
boys  were  with  me,  there  were  plenty  of  young 
people  camping  and  living  in  cottages  at  the 
lake,  and  there  were  dances  and  corn-roasts  and 
fishing  parties  and  excursions  and  picnics  and 
other  festivities  to  be  engaged  in — and,  inex- 
perienced in  hermiting  as  I  was,  I  knew  that 
festivities  were  not  compatible  with  the  job. 
But  when  winter  came  I  intended  to  remain 
there,  let  my  hair  and  whiskers  grow — I  could 
picture  myself  with  a  long,  flowing  red  beard — 
and  settle  down  to  hermit  out  the  rest  of  my 
pitiful  existence. 

It  was  a  lively  summer.  I  had  a  lot  of  fun 
at  no  expense  save  the  exertion  of  catching  fish 
and  garnering  other  foodstuff.    Clothes  did  not 


140  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

bother  me,  and  except  when  the  girls  were  along 
no  shoes  were  worn.  I  fully  decided  I  was  a 
failure,  and  had  rather  pleasant  anticipations 
of  long  winter  nights  alone  in  the  shack,  with 
no  company  but  my  thoughts  and  my  faithful 
dog.  I  didn't  have  a  faithful  dog,  but  I  was 
sure  I  could  find  one  somewhere.  Then  on 
the  first  of  August  a  man  from  the  telegraph 
office  at  the  head  of  the  lake  came  up  with  a 
telegram  for  me.  It  was  from  my  old  managing 
editor,  and  said  if  I  wanted  to  come  back  and 
substitute  during  the  vacation  season  he  would 
give  me  that  place  and  my  original  ten  dollars 
a  week. 

He  told  me  to  answer  by  wire.  I  didn't  do 
that.  I  answered  in  person,  arriving  there  the 
next  morning  and  forgetting  all  about  my 
hermit  decision.  Indeed  I  think  I  should  have 
made  a  mighty  poor  hermit,  and  probably  it 
is  just  as  well. 

I  fell  easily  back  into  the  old  swing  and 
worked  until  the  middle  of  September.  Then 
the  boys  were  all  back  from  their  vacations  and 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  141 

the  editors  told  me  they  were  sorry  but  they 
had  no  place  for  me.  I  had  been  frugal  during 
this  employment  and  had  saved  a  few  dollars, 
and  I  didn't  mind  dismissal  much.  I  had  an 
idea  I  wanted  to  branch  out  again  and  had  been 
writing  round  to  several  people  on  the  office 
letter  heads. 

I  had  a  nibble  from  a  big  city  in  another  state. 
Under  most  careful  nursing  the  nibble  devel- 
oped into  a  bite,  and  on  the  day  I  left  my  sub- 
stitute job  I  started  for  the  other  city.  I  didn't 
know  what  I  should  get,  but  I  was  ready  to 
tackle  anything  from  leading  editorial  articles 
to  midertakers  and  morgue,  and  had  endeavored 
to  impress  on  that  editor  my  ability  to  do  just 
that. 

I  went  round  to  see  the  man  who  had  asked 
me  to  come  on.  It  was  on  Saturday  afternoon. 
He  told  me  he  was  busy,  gave  me  a  ticket  to 
the  theatre  and  said  I  should  come  in  late  on 
Sunday  afternoon  and  he  would  see  what  he 
could  do.  The  show  was  Dixey  in  Adonis,  and 
had  Amelia  Summerville  playing  the  Merry  Lit- 


142  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

tie  Mountain  Maid.  I  was  all  clieered  up  with 
the  idea  of  getting  work  and  applauded  every- 
thing enthusiastically.  I  was  a  couple  of  hours 
ahead  of  time  at  the  office  next  day,  and  the 
editor  was  an  hour  late,  which  gave  me  a  creepy 
feeling.    Perhaps  he  didn  ^t  mean  it ! 

He  did,  though.  He  came  in  presently,  read 
his  letters,  gave  some  orders  and  then  told  the 
boy  to  bring  me  in.  He  was  a  kindly  man  and 
listened  tolerantly  to  my  enthusiastic  recital  of 
my  experience  and  abilities.  Then  he  said:  "I 
had  expected  to  put  you  on  the  local  staff,  but 
the  situation  has  changed'^ — ^my  heart  sank  into 
my  shoes  at  that — "and  I  cannot  spend  any 
more  money  in  that  direction  just  at  present. 
However,  now  that  I  have  brought  you  on,  I  can 
fix  you  temporarily" — my  spirits  rose  again  in 
a  rush — "and  will  give  you  a  place  as  assistant 
proofreader.  The  salarj^  will  be  fifteen  dollars 
a  week." 

Assistant  proofreader !  That  was  worse  than 
I  had  expected  even  in  my  most  pessimistic  mo- 
ments.   My  disappointment  showed  in  my  face, 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  143 

for  be  leaned  over  and  said  gently:  *'I  am 
sorry,  my  boy,  but  I  don't  own  tbis  paper.  If 
I  did  tbings  migbt  be  different.  I  am  working 
for  wages  bere  just  as  tbe  otbers  are,  and  sub- 
ject to  tbe  wbims  of  tbe  man  wbo  pays  tbose 
wages.  Be  a  sport  and  take  tbis  place,  and 
presently  I  can  fix  you." 

I  gulped  two  or  tbree  times  and  tben  straigbt- 
ened  up  in  tbe  cbair.  ''All  rigbt,"  I  answered. 
'*Wben  do  I  go  to  work?" 

''To-nigbt.  Report  to  Mac,  tbe  bead  proof- 
reader, in  tbe  composing  room  at  six-tbirty. 
Good  afternoon." 


144  THE   MAKING   OF  A 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Mao  was  a  thin,  cadaverous  man,  who  had 
asthma  and  smoked  cubeb  cigarettes.  He  had, 
in  addition  to  his  asthma,  a  chronic  grouch 
against  all  editors,  reporters,  printers  and  all 
other  branches  of  the  newspaper  business,  and 
claimed  they  would  all  show  themselves  as  igno- 
ramuses if  he  wasn't  there  to  catch  and  correct 
their  errors.  He  was  largely  right.  Mac  had 
a  great  deal  of  information  packed  into  that 
asthmatic  head  of  his. 

The  composing  room  was  on  the  top  floor  of 
a  four  or  five-story  building,  I  forget  which. 
The  business  office  and  editorial  rooms  were 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  the  lofts  between  were 
vacant.  There  was  no  elevator.  I  remember 
perfectly  how  my  footsteps  on  the  stairs  echoed 
dismally  through  those  vacant  lofts  as  I  climbed 
Tip  to  the  composing  room  for  my  first  night's 


NEWSPAPEE   MAN  145 

work.  I  wasn't  especially  cheerful  either.  It 
was  pretty  tough  for  a  rising  young  journalist, 
who  imagined  he  knew  all  there  was  to  know 
about  the  business,  to  be  reading  proof.  Still 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  I  would  do  anything 
round  that  place  before  I  would  quit,  and  I 
went  in  and  introduced  myself  to  Mac.  He 
looked  at  me  curiously. 

''Ever  read  proof?"  he  asked. 

I  told  him  I  had,  and  detailed  my  experience 
in  the  local  room  where  I  began  my  newspaper 
work. 

Mac  sniffed.  ''Great  Scott!"  he  said,  "an- 
other stuff  unloaded  on  me  by  that  soft-hearted 
managing  editor!  Does  he  think  I  am  running 
a  kindergarten  up  here?" 

It  seemed  so  to  me,  but  I  didn't  answer.  I 
held  copy  all  that  first  night  and  read  revises. 
Mac  was  one  of  the  most  expert  proofreaders 
I  have  ever  known,  and  his  need  really  was  a 
copy-holder  and  revise  reader,  with  a  man  to 
jump  in  and  take  a  few  galleys  during  the  late 
rush.     He  almost  could  handle  the  job  alone. 

1 0— Newspaper  Man. 


146  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

The  proofreaders^  desks  were  in  the  composing 
room,  a  lively  and  interesting  place,  and  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  loafing-time  in  the  early 
hours  when  copy  was  slow.  From  midnight  on 
the  proof  desk  was  the  busiest  place  in  the  es- 
tablishment. 

I  made  up  my  mind  I  might  just  as  well  be 
friends  with  Mac,  who  at  heart  was  a  mighty 
good  fellow,  and  I  laid  myself  out  to  win  him. 
It  didn't  take  long.  Mac  saw  I  was  a  rank 
amateur,  but  I  had  told  him  how  much  I  needed 
the  job,  and  he  excused  my  stupidity  and  errors 
and  encouraged  me  by  saying  I  had  the  mak- 
ings of  a  proofreader  in  me.  He  worked  on 
his  first  night  off  after  I  got  there,  too,  so  the 
job  wouldn't  fall  on  me  before  I  knew  the  ropes, 
and  we  became  fast  friends.  Incidentally,  Mao 
taught  me  a  great  deal  about  reading  proof  and 
gave  me  graphic  and  exact  information  about 
each  member  of  the  staff.  I  knew  all  their 
weaknesses  and  all  the  gossip  about  them  and 
could  tell  their  copy  the  minute  it  came  to  hand. 
Some  of  them  were  pretty  bad  and  some  were 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  147 

good,  but  it  wasn't  long  before  I  was  convinced 
I  was  as  good  as  any  of  them  and  only  needed 
an  opportunity  to  prove  it. 

I  had  plenty  of  time  to  myself,  as  I  got  off 
about  four  o  'clock  in  the  morning  and  slept  until 
noon,  thus  having  the  afternoons  for  myself.  I 
found  a  room  about  a  mile  from  the  office.  The 
landlady  said  I  could  have  it  for  two  dollars  and 
a  half  a  week  if  I  would  room  with  another 
young  man.  She  brought  up  the  other  young 
man.  He  was  a  West  Virginian  who  was  study- 
ing to  be  an  undertaker,  and  had  the  room  filled 
with  the  tools  and  textbooks  of  his  profession. 
He  slept  at  night  and  I  slept  in  the  daytime,  so 
the  arrangement  worked  well,  and  I  gathered 
considerable  information  from  him  about  em- 
balming and  kindred  topics.  I  couldn  't  see  why 
anybody  should  want  to  be  an  undertaker  and 
he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  why  anybody 
should  read  proof  for  a  living,  so  we  started 
out  on  a  mutual  basis  of  disagreement  and  got 
along  famously. 

My  fifteen  dollars   a  week  kept  me   going 


148  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

nicely,  but  I  was  lonely,  for  I  rarely  came  in 
contact  with  any  of  the  men  on  the  editorial 
staff,  except  the  night  editor.  They  held  an 
assistant  proofreader  in  low  esteem  anyhow. 
So  my  companion  on  my  nights  off  was  the 
embryo  undertaker,  who  was  a  fine  chap.  We 
went  to  theatres  together  and,  as  Saturday  was 
payday  with  me  and  my  day  off,  we  indulged  in 
a  chop  and  a  bottle  of  ale  afterward  and  im- 
agined we  were  rolling  high.  On  Saturdays, 
too,  I  smoked  my  only  ten-cent  cigar  of  the 
week.  The  rest  of  the  time  I  smoked  stogies 
that  came  about  seven  for  ten  cents.  I  found  a 
cheap  restaurant  where  I  could  get  breakfast 
and  dinner  for  fifty  cents  a  day,  and  at  mid- 
night a  man  came  into  the  office  with  sandwiches 
and  coffee.    So  I  saved  some  money. 

I  had  been  working  for  about  three  weeks 
and  everybody  in  the  editorial  rooms  had  for- 
gotten my  existence,  except  once  when  I  let  a 
bad  bull  go  through  on  a  revise  and  heard  from 
it  emphatically,  when  the  foreman  came  over 
to  Mac  about  midnight  and  said:    ''What  do 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  149 

you  know  about  this?  That  stiff  that  writes 
the  alleged  paragraphs  for  the  editorial  page 
hasn  ^t  showed  up  to-night  and  I  'm  ready  to  close 
that  page.'^ 

* '  Close  it, ' '  said  Mac.  * '  It  will  be  better  with- 
out them." 

It  so  happened  that  the  editorial  paragrapher 
was  a  nephew  of  the  man  who  owned  the  paper 
and  had  no  ability,  but  was  kept  on  the  paper 
because  his  uncle  didn't  know  what  else  to  do 
with  him.  He  had  picked  out  paragraphing  as 
the  softest  job  on  the  paper,  though  real  para- 
graphing is  one  of  the  hardest,  there  being  then 
and  now  but  few  writers  who  are  good  at  it. 

Here  was  a  chance  for  me.  "How  many  do 
you  need?"  I  asked  eagerly. 

**0h,  half  a  dozen  or  so  to  make  a  showing," 
the  foreman  said.     "Why?" 

"I'll  write  them." 

The  foreman  and  Mac  laughed.  "Go  to  it," 
the  foreman  said.  I  wrote  eight.  When  they 
came  through  in  proof  Mac  read  them  carefully 
and  said:    "Not  so  rotten."     That  was  high 


150  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

praise  from  Mac.  Next  night  the  nephew  came 
up  and  asked  Mac :  ''Who  wrote  the  paragraphs 
last  night  ? ' '  Mac  jerked  his  thumb  at  me.  The 
nephew  took  me  aside.  "Keep  it  up,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  fix  it  with  my  uncle  so  you  get  down- 
stairs. I  hate  paragraphing  anyhow.  I  want 
to  be  sporting  editor." 

So  I  wrote  the  paragraphs  every  night  for 
a  week  and  gave  them  to  the  nephew,  who  copied 
them  and  handed  them  in.  Then  the  managing 
editor  came  up.  "Who's  writing  those  para- 
graphs?" he  asked.  They  told  him  I  was. 
"Quit  it,"  he  ordered.  "Do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  let  that  lobster  get  by  this  way  ?  Chop 
it,  or  I'll  fire  you." 

That  was  a  body  blow.  I  hoped  the  managing 
editor  would  recognize  true  merit  and  take  me 
downstairs,  but  he  didn't.  Still  I  had  plenty 
to  do.  The  night  editor  found  I  knew  something 
about  make-up,  and  he  let  me  make  up  the 
early  pages  while  he  luxuriated  in  a  place  near 
by.  The  foreman  and  the  assistant  foreman 
became  my  firm  friends  and  I  found  some  of 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  151 

the  printers  were  pretty  good  companions.  So 
at  the  end  of  the  first  month  I  was  reasonably 
well  contented,  was  getting  an  insight  into  com- 
posing-room methods  that  stood  me  in  good 
stead  later,  and  was  sending  down  a  few  spe- 
cial articles  to  the  managing  editor,  some  of 
which  he  ran  in  when  copy  was  short. 

Then  I  had  a  smashing  blow  in  the  face.  One 
morning  about  five  o  'clock,  after  work  was  over 
and  I  had  been  sitting  round  and  talking  with 
Mac  and  the  foreman,  I  started  down  the  long 
stairs  through  the  vacant  lofts  to  go  to  my 
room.  My  eyes  had  been  hurting  a  good  deal 
for  a  couple  of  weeks  and  I  had  vaguely  con- 
sidered going  to  see  a  doctor  about  them.  I 
was  using  them  hard  and  continuously  under 
the  electric  light  on  the  proofs  and  not  taking 
any  too  much  sleep,  for  I  was  exploring  the 
city  and  trying  to  find  material  for  special 
articles.  I  walked  down  the  stairs  and  out  on 
the  street.  Just  as  I  reached  the  sidewalk  all 
the  lights  seemed  to  go  out  and  things  became 
utterly  black  before  me.    I  couldn't  figure  out 


152  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

what  was  the  matter,  but  stood  uncertainly  on 
the  walk,  unable  to  see  at  all. 

I  heard  somebody  coming  out  and  called, 
**Who  is  it?"  It  was  Mac.  I  told  him  what 
had  happened.  I  could  hear  him  muttering 
under  his  breath.  He  took  me  by  the  arm  and 
led  me  to  my  room.  On  the  way  I  realized  that 
I  had  become  blind.  I  couldn't  see!  I  almost 
collapsed  when  I  got  that  straight  in  my  head. 
Mac  had  been  cheering  me  up  all  the  way. 

''Mac,"  I  quavered,  ''what's  the  matter  with 
me?    Am  I  blind?" 

"Don't  worry  about  that,'*  soothed  Mac. 
"I've  seen  this  happen  a  lot  of  times,"  he  lied 
encouragingly.  "A  few  days'  rest  and  you'll 
be  all  right.  I'll  have  the  doctor  over  to  see 
you  early  in  the  morning." 

Mac  led  me  to  my  room  and  helped  me  un- 
dress. He  told  the  student  of  undertaking  to 
look  after  me,  which  he  did,  and  I  lay  there  in 
total  darkness  until  nine  o'clock,  thinking  it 
might  be  just  as  well  to  kill  myself  and  have 
it  over  with.    The  doctor  came  at  nine  o'clock. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  153 

Mac  hadn't  gone  to  bed,  but  had  called  a  famous 
oculist  and  came  with  him.  Afterward  I  learned 
that  grouchy,  asthmatic,  cynical,  sardonic  Mac 
had  guaranteed  the  doctor's  bill. 

The  doctor  said  the  trouble  was  merely  tem- 
porary. I  needed  glasses,  and  a  few  days  in 
a  dark  room  would  fix  me  all  right.  This  helped 
a  lot  and  the  student  of  undertaking  stayed  with 
me  like  a  nurse.  He  quit  his  studies  and  read 
to  me  and  told  me  stories  about  his  adventures, 
and  Mac  dropped  in  every  day  with  the  news 
of  the  oflSce.  On  the  fifth  day  my  sight  came 
back  as  suddenly  as  it  had  left  me,  the  doctor 
fitted  me  to  a  pair  of  glasses  and  I  was  appar- 
ently all  right.  That  day  Mac  came  in  in  a 
state  of  excitement  for  him. 

**Say,  kid,"  he  said,  ''there's  a  guy  got  a 
paper  down  in  the  next  state  who  wants  an 
editor.  Here's  his  name.  Write  to  him  and 
maybe  you'll  get  the  job." 


154  THE   MAKING   OF   A 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

I  wrote  and  then  went  back  to  work.  Mac 
favored  me  a  lot  for  two  or  three  days.  The 
new  glasses  worked  well  and  I  was  getting 
rapidly  into  the  old  stride  when,  one  morning 
about  ten  o'clock,  the  landlady  knocked  on  my 
door  and  said  there  was  a  gentleman  to  see  me. 
He  came  np.  It  was  the  man  to  whom  I  had 
written  about  the  editorship. 

We  talked  for  a  time  and  he  said  I  seemed 
to  be  just  the  man  he  wanted.  He  said  there 
was  a  big  strike  on  in  his  town;  that  he  and 
another  man  who  had  been  working  in  the  mills 
had  started  the  paper  to  take  the  side  of  the 
strikers;  that  they  had  plenty  of  money  and 
that  it  was  a  mighty  good  game. 

He  said  the  town  was  all  in  sjinpathy  with 
the  strikers  and  the  union,  and  that  the  other 
papers  were  owned  by  the  corporations;    and 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  155 

it  was  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  to  jump  in  and 
grab  all  the  business  and  circulation  in  the 
place. 

**But,"  he  said,  ''before  I  hire  you  I  want 
to  see  what  you  can  do.  I  notice  on  the  news- 
paper bulletin  boards  in  town  that  Jefferson 
Davis  is  dead'^ — he  wasn't,  it  was  a  false  re- 
port— ' '  and  I  wish  you  would  write  me  a  column 
editorial  on  Davis,  remembering  that  our  city 
is  about  half  Union  and  half  Confederate.  Give 
him  his  deserts,  but  don't  slop  over  on  him." 

I  spent  the  afternoon  writing  my  opinion  of 
Jefferson  Davis  for  a  constituency  half  Union 
and  half  Confederate,  and  mailed  the  result 
to  the  owner.  Two  mornings  later  I  received  a 
letter  from  him  containing  a  railroad  mileage 
book  and  an  invitation  to  come  on  and  take  the 
job.  He  said  the  editorial  was  great  and  he 
regretted  that  Davis  had  not  died,  so  that  he 
might  use  it.  However,  he  promised  to  save  it 
until  the  proper  time  should  come. 

I  asked  the  managing  editor  if  there  was  any 
chance  of  my  getting  downstairs,  and  he  said 


156  THE   MAKINa   OF  A 

there  wasn  't  at  that  time ;  so  I  quit,  bade  good- 
bye to  Mac  and  my  friends  in  the  composing 
room,  packed  my  trunk,  had  a  last  chop  and 
bottle  of  ale  with  the  student  of  undertaking 
and  took  the  train  on  Monday  morning  early. 
The  owner  was  at  the  station  to  meet  me. 

"Come  on  up  to  my  house  for  dinner,"  he 
said.    "Then  we  will  go  down  to  the  office." 

"We  walked  up  to  his  house.  As  we  came  in 
he  called  up  the  stairs,  "Mary,  dear,  I've  got 
our  new  editor  here  for  dinner." 

"You  have?"  replied  Mary  acidly.  "How 
nice  of  you!  And  this  washday  and  not  a 
thing  for  dinner  but  vegetable  soup  and  cold 
meat!  You  have  got  about  as  much  sense  as 
a  canary  bird." 

*  *  Don 't  mind  that, '  *  he  whispered.  ' '  I  plumb 
forgot  it  was  washday." 

It  wasn't  so  bad  as  Mary  had  said.  At  din- 
ner the  owner  told  me  the  story  of  the  great 
strike,  how  he  had  started  his  paper,  how  much 
money  he  and  his  partner  had,  how  it  was 
doing,  and  afterward  we  went  down  to  the  office. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  157 

tt  was  located  up  one  flight  of  stairs.  As  we 
entered  I  saw  that  the  outfit  was  not  much  bet- 
ter than  the  one  I  had  owned  the  year  before. 
I  had  a  chill.  Still  I  found  that  he  had  ar- 
ranged for  a  condensed  telegraph  service,  that 
he  really  had  a  telegraph  wire  running  into 
the  place  and  an  operator,  and  that  there  was 
an  experienced  man  working  as  the  entire  local 
staff.  He  had  a  fairly  good  press  and  the  busi- 
ness end  of  it  was  all  right. 

The  local  staff  came  in  and  I  met  him.  He 
was  a  reporter  in  hard  luck,  like  myself,  but 
he  had  had  about  ten  times  as  much  experience 
as  I  had.  However,  the  owner  made  me  editor- 
in-chief  and  we  went  at  it.  The  telegraph  oper- 
ator, who  wasn't  very  affluent  himself,  took  the 
telegraph  report,  wrote  the  heads  and  rewrote 
the  important  items,  expanding  them  as  much 
as  he  could.  The  local  staff  and  the  editor-in- 
chief  got  and  wrote  all  the  local,  the  editorial 
articles,  most  of  the  advertising,  made  up,  read 
proof — in  short,  we  got  out  the  paper.  We 
lambasted  the  tar  out  of  the  criminal  corpor- 


158  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

ations  that  were  oppressing  the  strikers,  and 
had  a  gay  old  time.  Salary  was  regular  for 
a  time.  Then  it  became  wobbly.  It  cost  more 
to  run  a  new  paper  than  our  owners  supposed 
and  the  corporations  were  putting  on  the  screws 
wherever  possible.  My  fifteen  dollars  a  week 
dwindled  some  weeks  to  six  and  seven  dollars 
and  some  orders  on  merchants  who  advertised. 
It  didn't  look  good. 

One  day  the  local  staff  threw  me  over  a  letter. 
It  was  from  a  man  in  a  Southern  city  who 
wanted  an  editor.  ''Take  it,"  he  said;  "I  am 
going  north  when  this  blows  up." 

I  went  out  and  telegraphed.  I  had  an  an- 
swer that  afternoon  telling  me  to  come  on,  and 
next  day  I  quit  and  started  south.  All  told 
I  had  about  seventy-five  dollars  in  money  I 
had  laboriously  saved.  When  I  got  to  my  town 
I  found  I  was  in  with  another  new  proposition. 
There  was  a  big  and  influential  paper  in  the 
city  and  this  one  had  been  started  by  a  dis- 
gruntled politician  who  had  been  kept  out  of 
the  graft. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  159 

This  man  gave  me  twenty  dollars  a  week,  and 
my  duties  consisted  entirely  in  an  editorial 
supervision  of  the  paper  and  the  writing  of 
editorial  articles  attacking  his  enemies.  We  had 
three  reporters  and  were  well  fixed  in  handling 
the  local. 

I  fussed  round  for  a  week  getting  the  lay  of 
the  land,  and  then  one  afternoon  I  let  go  a 
screamer  about  the  local  boss  and  some  of  his 
henchmen.  That  article  certainly  did  call  those 
persons  by  their  right  names.  The  boss  was 
so  tickled  with  it  that  he  had  it  put  on  the  first 
column  of  the  first  page  and  double-leaded. 
When  the  paper  came  up  the  city  editor  walked 
over  to  my  desk. 

''Better  keep  under  cover  for  a  few  days,*' 
he  advised. 

"Whyr^Iasked. 

"That  stuff  means  shooting  down  here,"  he 
told  me,  ''and  they're  just  as  likely  to  shoot 
you  as  not." 

That  was  a  contingency  that  had  not  appealed 
to  me.    There  was  nothing  in  being  shot,  so  far 


160  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

as  I  could  see.  Nothing  happened.  The  local 
political  reporter  told  me  the  politicians 
growled  some,  but  that  was  all.  Three  days 
later  I  printed  another.  At  the  end  of  the 
week  we  put  one  out  that  made  the  first  one 
look  like  a  tract.  By  this  time  I  was  convinced 
that  all  this  talk  about  shooting  was  a  bluff, 
and  I  dismissed  it  from  my  mind.  I  was  elated, 
too,  for  we  were  getting  action.  The  people 
began  to  side  with  us,  and  the  boss  said  all  we 
had  to  do  was  to  keep  at  it  and  we  would  drive 
them  all  to  their  holes. 

^'That  last  one  almost  took  the  rag  off  the 
bush,'^  he  exclaimed  enthusiastically.  ''Give 
them  another  to-morrow  and  we'll  have  them 
on  the  run.'* 

Then  he  raised  my  salary  to  twenty-five  dol- 
lars a  week  and  took  me  out  to  luncheon.  We 
walked  down  the  street.  As  we  turned  the  cor- 
ner a  man  stepped  out  of  a  doorway,  holding 
something  bright  and  shiny  in  his  hand.  I  re- 
member looking  at  him  curiously  and  wonder- 
ing what  the  shiny  thing  was. 


NEWSPAPEE   MAN  161 

**Duck!''  yelled  the  boss,  diving  for  a  door- 
way and  tugging  at  his  hip  pocket. 

I  heard  a  sharp  report  and  something  whizzed 
by  my  head.  It  sounded  like  a  big  bee  buzzing. 
Then  I  realized  the  man  with  the  shiny  thing 
in  his  hand  was  shooting  at  me.  I  don^t  re- 
member whether  I  got  into  that  store  through 
the  transom  over  the  door  or  through  the  plate- 
glass  window.  I  got  in  somehow  and  landed 
behind  a  counter.  The  boss  had  unlimbered  his 
pistol  by  this  time  and  was  peppering  at  the 
man  in  the  street  from  behind  a  soda-water 
fountain.  Each  fired  five  times.  They  were 
poor  shots.  Neither  was  hit.  The  man  in  the 
street  disappeared  up  an  alley  and  the  boss 
loaded  his  pistol  and  took  a  careful  reconnois- 
sance.  ''Come  on,"  he  said  to  me.  ''It's  all 
over  for  the  time  being.    We'll  eat  now." 

I  didn't  eat  anything.  It  didn't  seem  time  for 
gustatory  exercises.  Instead  I  hurried  back  to 
the  office.  There  the  local  political  reporter  im- 
parted the  cheerful  information  to  me  that  the 
gang  had  decided  to  "get"  this  fresh  North- 

/  / — Newspaper  Man. 


162  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

erner  who  had  come  down  there  and  was  abus- 
ing them,  and  that  probably  I  was  due  to  be 
shot  sooner  or  later.  He  said  they  expected  to 
shoot  both  the  boss  and  myself  that  day. 

The  boss  was  used  to  that  sort  of  politics, 
but  I  wasn  't ;  and  after  writing  a  flaming  story 
about  the  attempt  of  cowardly  assassins  to  mur- 
der in  cold  blood  the  fearless  publicists  who  had 
dared  to  tell  the  truth  about  them,  and  defying 
them  and  calling  them  many  other  fancy  names 
to  the  extent  of  a  column  and  a  half,  I  decided 
that  I  needed  a  change  of  air  and  I  took  it. 
Years  later  one  of  the  men  who  was  in  the  plot 
to  shoot  me  told  me  they  only  desired  to  scare 
me.    I  told  him  they  succeeded  in  their  desire. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  163 


CHAPTER  XIX 

I  had  expanded  a  little,  so  far  as  living  ex- 
penses went,  and  didn't  have  as  much  money 
when  I  left  as  I  had  when  I  arrived ;  but  I  had 
enough  to  get  to  a  big  Southwestern  city  some 
hundreds  of  miles  north,  and  I  went  there.  In 
a  week  or  so  I  had  a  place  as  one  of  the  as- 
sistants to  the  sporting  editor  of  a  morning 
paper.  My  part  of  the  work  was  to  look  out 
for  the  amateur  ball  games  and  amateur  sport 
of  all  kinds.  I  got  twenty  dollars  a  week.  That 
place  didn't  last  long.  One  of  the  peculiarities 
of  the  editor  was  to  discharge  the  first  man  in 
on  any  morning  when  the  opposition  morning 
paper  beat  us  on  a  big  story,  I  didn't  know 
that.  One  morning  after  I  had  been  there  a 
week  or  so  I  came  whistling  into  the  office  about 
eleven  o'clock.  The  editor  was  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  local  room,  with  a  crumpled  copy 


164  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

of  our  paper  in  his  hand,  on  the  alert  for  his 
victim. 

*  *  Get  out !  '^  he  squeaked.  *  *  Get  out !  You  're 
fired!    Get  out!" 

*'What  for?"  I  asked  in  amazement. 

"Don't  stand  there  asking  fool  questions. 
You're  fired,  I  tell  you!    Get  out!" 

And  he  stamped  back  to  his  room.  I  waited 
at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  until  the  sporting  editor 
came  along  and  then  I  told  him  of  my  experi- 
ence. '*By  George!"  he  said,  ''I  forgot  to  tell 
you  about  the  old  man.  I'm  sorry.  Where  do 
you  expect  to  go  now?" 

The  sporting  editor  fi:xed  it  so  that  I  got  the 
few  dollars  coming  to  me  on  my  second  week, 
and  I  walked  over  to  the  hotel  and  sat  down  in 
the  lobby  and  thought  bitter  thoughts  concern- 
ing the  injustice  of  things  in  general  and  of  that 
squeaky-voiced  maniac  of  an  editor  in  particu- 
lar. That  got  me  nowhere.  Neither  did  my  ap- 
plications for  work  on  the  other  papers.  So  I 
decided  to  go  West. 

The  most  convenient  way  to  travel,  I  thought 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  165 

was  to  travel  light,  so  I  sold  my  little  stock  of 
personal  possessions  to  a  second-hand  dealer, 
keeping  my  best  suit — I  had  two  then — and 
bought  a  soft  hat  and  a  gray  flannel  shirt.  I 
sold  everything  I  had  except  a  few  handker- 
chiefs and  a  change  of  underwear.  Then  I 
visited  the  ticket  scalpers.  I  found  a  ticket  for 
eleven  dollars  that  would  take  me  a  good  long 
way  toward  the  setting  sun,  and  I  bought  it. 
That  night  I  walked  down  to  the  oflSce,  shook 
my  fist  at  the  editor's  room  and  took  the  train. 

The  town  I  landed  in  was  a  railroad  centre 
with  two  poor  newspapers.  They  didn't  want 
any  men.  I  had  about  decided  to  try  another 
trip  and  beat  my  way  when  I  got  a  job  as  barker 
for  a  restaurant  near  the  railroad  station.  My 
business  was  to  stand  outside  the  restaurant 
when  trains  came  in  and  call  the  attention  of 
the  passengers  who  got  off  to  the  unrivaled  col- 
lection of  comestibles  within  at  cheap  prices. 

I  fixed  up  a  fancy  line  of  vocal  allurement 
for  the  unsuspecting  traveling  public  and  was 
quite  successful  in  getting  them  to  come  in.    The 


166  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

proprietor  told  me  I  was  the  best  barker  be 
bad  ever  bad.  Besides,  my  babits  were  good 
and  I  was  always  in  sbape  to  work.  He  saved 
good  food  for  me  and,  altbougb  I  was  in  bourly 
fear  tbat  some  one  I  knew  migbt  come  along  and 
discover  the  predicament  of  a  rising  young 
journalist,  I  bad  a  good  time,  a  clean  place  to 
sleep  and  plenty  to  eat.  Naturally  I  made 
friends  witb  tbe  regular  customers.  A  good 
many  of  tbe  conductors  used  to  eat  tbere.  Tbe 
town  was  a  division  point,  and  after  a  montb 
or  so  tbe  conductors  knew  me  well  enough  to 
befriend  me. 

*'Say,  kid,  said  one  of  them,  '* what's  your 
idea  in  standing  out  here  and  yelling  your  bead 
off  about  this  bum  grubT' 

*'Why,"  I  replied,  ''I've  got  to  do  something 
and  this  seems  to  be  the  only  opening  here  for 
a  bright  young  man  like  myself." 

*'How'd  you  like  to  go  East?"  be  asked. 

I  told  him  I  had  come  out  there  to  grow  up 
witb  tbe  country,  but,  now  that  he  had  men- 
tioned it,  tbe  East  looked  pretty  good  to  me  and 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  167 

I'd  like  to  go  that  way  better  than  anything  I 
knew. 

''All  right,"  he  said,  ^'hop  on  my  train  when 
I  go  out  to-night. ' ' 

I  hopped  on,  much  to  the  displeasure  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  restaurant,  who  told  me  I  was 
ruining  a  promising  career  as  a  barker  by  quit- 
ting him  in  that  way.  I  rode  in  state  to  the 
end  of  that  conductor's  run  and  he  passed  me 
on  to  the  next  conductor.  This  lasted  all  the 
way  to  Chicago,  where  I  arrived  sleek  and  well 
fed  and  with  money  in  my  pocket.  Also  I  ar- 
rived in  a  sombrero  and  a  pair  of  tan-colored 
boots  that  I  had  bought  from  a  cowboy  who  was 
financially  embarrassed  at  the  moment  of  the 
sale  and  was  willing  to  sacrifice  these  treasures 
for  the  wherewithal  to  procure  rum. 

There  was  a  man  whom  I  had  known  as  a 
boy  who  kept  a  hotel  in  that  town,  and  I  hunted 
him  up.  He  was  glad  to  see  me  and  extended 
the  hospitalities  of  his  place  to  me  for  as  long 
as  I  cared  to  stay.  I  tried  all  the  newspaper 
offices,  but  soon  found  that  Chicago  newspaper 


168  THE   MAKING   OF  K 

offices  were  different  from  those  to  whicli  I  had 
been  accustomed.  I  got  no  farther  than  the 
dinky  reception  rooms  in  most  of  them,  and  had 
the  most  emphatic  refusal  of  work  from  a  man 
who,  ten  or  fifteen  years  later,  gave  me  a  most 
important  position.  I  rather  expected  to  have 
no  luck  and  I  didn't  care  much.  If  worst  came 
to  worst  I  could  get  another  job  as  barker  in 
a  restaurant,  or  waiter  or  assistant  manager,  for 
I  had  kept  my  eyes  open  and  knew  a  lot  of  the 
tricks  of  cheap  eating  places. 

Once  in  a  while  the  boys  on  the  old  paper 
wrote  to  me.  I  had  written  to  most  of  them 
from  Chicago.  One  day  I  got  a  telegram  from 
one  of  the  boys  on  the  old  paper.  ''Come  on," 
it  read;  ''the  chief  says  you  can  have  a  place 
on  the  local  staff." 

I  went  on  that  night,  first  disposing  of  my 
sombrero  and  tan-colored  boots.  I  hated  to  do 
that,  but  I  figured  I  wouldn't  make  much  of  a 
hit  in  the  old  local  room  in  that  rig.  I  knew 
that  from  the  guying  I  got  on  the  streets  of 
Chicago.    When  I  arrived  the  chief  told  me  I 


NEWSPAPEE   MAN  169 

could  go  fo  work,  if  I  wanted  to,  for  fifteen  dol- 
lars a  week.  I  grabbed  that  fifteen.  And  there 
I  was  back  again  where  I  started.  He  didn't 
know  it,  and  I  didn't  tell  him,  but  I  would  have 
taken  ten. 

There  was  a  new  city  editor,  a  friend  of  mine 
and  a  fine  chap.  He  gave  me  an  opportunity. 
He  handed  me  good  assignments  and  I  pro- 
gressed rapidly.  It  wasn't  long  before  I  had 
the  introductions  to  all  the  big  stories  and  was 
allowed  to  write  specials  when  nothing  big  was 
stirring.  Still  I  had  my  troubles.  One  night 
about  half  past  six  I  was  sitting  in  the  oflBce, 
finishing  some  work.  All  the  other  boys  had 
gone  to  dinner.  The  telephone  bell  rang.  I 
answered  the  call,  which  was  from  the  police 
station.  The  lieutenant  said  there  had  been  a 
murder  out  in  the  eastern  part  of  the  city ;  that 
a  woman  had  been  found  in  the  cellar  of  her 
house  strangled,  and  that  the  coroner  was  just 
starting  for  the  place. 

I  knew  the  coroner  would  have  to  drive  past 
our  office,  so  I  left  a  note  for  the  city  editor 


170  THE   MAILING   OF   A 

telling  him  I  was  on  the  case  and  jumped  down- 
stairs. The  coroner  came  by;  I  stopped  him 
and  he  let  me  ride  with  him.  We  reached  the 
scene  of  the  murder  in  half  an  hour.  The  house 
was  a  story-and-a-half  affair  in  an  outside 
subdivision  of  the  city,  and  the  building  nearest 
to  it  was  a  hundred  yards  away.  The  woman 
had  been  found  by  her  husband — who  was  a 
tinner  and  had  been  working  on  a  roof  on  the 
same  street — when  he  returned  for  supper  at 
six  o'clock.  She  had  been  dragged  to  a  corner 
of  the  cellar  and  strangled  by  a  cloth  flour-bag 
that  was  wound  tightly  round  her  neck. 

It  was  a  good  story.  I  had  a  crack  at  it  be- 
fore the  police  got  there,  and  I  talked  to  every- 
body and  got  everything  bearing  on  the  case. 
Nobody  had  seen  a  man  go  in  or  out  of  the 
house,  but  it  was  apparent  that  the  woman  had 
been  killed  soon  after  dinner,  for  she  had  been 
washing  that  day  and  her  clothes  were  still  in 
the  tub.  The  husband  said  she  had  left  the 
clothes  in  the  tub  in  order  to  prepare  the  din- 
ner and  then  eat  it  with  him.    I  discovered,  or 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  171 

thought  I  discovered,  that  the  husband  and  wife 
were  not  on  good  terms,  and  that  was  enough 
for  me.  I  got  back  to  the  office  about  nine 
o'clock,  bursting  with  the  story,  which  was  the 
most  sensational  murder  we  had  had  for  some 
time.  I  told  the  city  editor  what  I  had  and  he 
shouted  excitedly:  ''Write  every  darned  line 
you  can!  You  can  have  all  the  space  in  the 
paper.  And  put  hair  on  it!"  That  meant  to 
make  the  story  sensational,  which  I  was  aching 
to  do. 

I  sat  down  and  went  at  it,  always  bearing  in 
mind  my  instructions  to  liven  it  up,  and  I  turned 
out  a  dime-novel  yarn  about  that  murder.  It 
had  hair  on  it,  all  right.  When  I  got  to  the 
identity  of  the  murderer  or  to  the  discussion 
of  motives  I  was  going  finely.  With  the  in- 
formation I  had  concerning  the  woman's  trouble 
with  her  husband  I  dashed  off  this  gem,  while 
describing  the  body  and  its  discovery  by  the 
reporter  and  the  coroner:  ''As  she  lay  there, 
there  was  an  expression  on  her  face  that  forced 
the  thought  that  she  had  been  struck  by  one 


172  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

she  loved;    not  pain,  not  anger,  only  surprise 
and  grief/' 

We  all  thought  that  was  great  when  the 
proofs  came  down,  and  it  certainly  did  look 
fine  in  fnll-face  type  in  the  paper  next  morning. 
Then  the  afternoon  papers  came  out  and  each 
had  an  editorial  condemning  the  paper  for 
printing  an  accusation  of  this  kind  against  the 
husband,  who  clearly  was  not  the  murderer; 
condemning  the  editor  who  passed  it,  and  par- 
ticularly telling  how  many  kinds  of  a  fool  the 
reporter  was  who  wrote  it.  One  of  the  editorial 
writers  went  a  bit  into  my  journalistic  history, 
to  my  confusion,  and  both  agreed  I  was  a  star- 
spangled  donkey  and  should  be  sweeping  streets 
instead  of  working  as  a  reporter.  That  started 
all  the  ''Pro  Bono  Publico"  and  ''Amazed 
Reader''  letter-to-the-editors  boys,  and  the  way 
they  scalped  me  was  sickening.  It  got  to  be 
more  of  a  sensation  than  the  murder  itself. 
Two  preachers  preached  about  the  "Irresponsi- 
bility of  the  Press"  on  the  following  Sunday 
night,  and  one  of  them  flayed  me  alive.     The 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  173 

opposition  papers  printed  the  sermons  in  full 
and  the  weekly  papers  took  a  hack  at  it.  I 
sneaked  round  on  the  back  streets  for  a  fort- 
night. I  expected  to  be  discharged,  but  the 
managing  editor  never  mentioned  the  thing  to 
me. 


174  THE  MAKING   OE  A 


CHAPTER  XX 

Not  long  after  this  I  had  further  proof  that 
the  managing  editor  was  my  friend.  It  had 
been  announced  that  Larry  Donovan,  who  had 
emulated  Steve  Brodie  and  had  jumped  from 
the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  was  coming  to  our  town 
to  jump  over  our  falls,  a  feat  that  had  never 
been  accomplished  successfully.  For  six  nights 
I  had  the  assignment,  ''Find  Larry  Donovan." 
For  six  nights  I  kept  on  the  trail  of  Larry,  and 
he  did  not  arrive.  On  the  seventh  night  I  had 
the  same  assignment.  That  night  I  played  pool 
until  eleven  o'clock  and  came  back  to  the  office 
with  the  usual  report  that  Larry  had  not  ar- 
rived. We  ran  a  column  of  short  local  jottings 
each  day  under  the  head  of  ''Town  Talk,"  and 
each  member  of  the  staff  was  expected  to  con- 
tribute five  items.  My  first  for  that  night  was 
"Where  is  Larry  Donovan?" 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  175 

Next  morning  the  opposition  paper  informed 
the  city  adequately  where  Larry  Donovan  was. 
He  was  in  the  hospital,  having  arrived  in  the 
city  the  night  before  and  made  the  jump.  Any 
time  the  city  editor  sent  me  upon  a  special 
mission  after  that  he  wrote  down  my  assign- 
ment and  after  it  the  words,  "and  find  Larry 
Donovan." 

In  about  a  year  and  a  half  things  began  com- 
ing my  way.  I  had  my  salary  raised  to  eighteen 
dollars  a  week  and  was  made  baseball  reporter 
and  dramatic  critic.  Baseball  came  in  the  sum- 
mer when  the  theatres  were  not  running,  and 
there  was  no  baseball  when  the  dramatic  season 
was  on.  My  baseball  and  theatrical  stories  were 
popular  with  the  people,  but  intensely  unpopu- 
lar with  the  persons  who  owned  the  ball  club 
and  the  playhouses,  for  I  told  the  truth  about 
both  institutions.  I  became  a  personage.  When 
my  friends  came  to  town  I  could  pass  them  into 
the  theatres,  and  I  always  was  good  for  reserved 
seats  at  the  ball  games.  Also  I  was  making 
some  money  by  corresponding  for  out-of-town 


176  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

papers  and  I  considered  that  my  career  in 
journalism  was  safely  begnn. 

Then  there  came  a  state  convention  to  the 
city.  I  was  put  in  charge  of  the  story.  A  lot 
of  out-of-town  reporters  were  there  and  I  knew 
I  had  to  make  good,  for  these  stern  critics  would 
see  my  work  every  morning,  while  nobody  on 
the  ground  would  see  the  stories  they  tele- 
graphed back  until  their  papers  came  in  by  mail, 
and  there  would  only  be  a  few  of  these.  I  had 
two  of  the  boys  to  help  me  and  we  worked  prac- 
tically all  the  time.  We  were  doing  very  well 
and  had  even  received  a  word  of  commendation 
from  the  managing  editor,  until  the  morning  of 
the  day  when  the  nomination  for  governor  was 
to  be  made. 

There  were  two  or  three  candidates.  I  had 
my  story  all  written,  when  a  man  I  knew  to  be 
in  the  confidence  of  the  bosses  came  in  and 
told  me  it  had  been  decided  to  name  a  certain 
man.  I  changed  my  story,  put  a  paragraph  at 
the  head  of  it  giving  this  news  and  went  to  bed. 
Next  morning  I  came  early  to  the  office.    I  felt 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  177 

pretty  good.  I  was  the  first  man  in — ^bnt  one. 
That  one  was  the  managing  editor.  I  found 
him  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  local  room 
with  a  copy  of  the  paper  crumpled  in  his  hand, 
giving  an  exact  imitation  of  the  managing 
editor  who  had  discharged  me  a  long  time 
before. 

''It's  all  off,"  I  thought;  ''I'm  fired." 
"What  do  you  mean  by  this!"  shouted  the 
managing  editor.  ' '  What  do  you  mean  by  mak- 
ing a  fool  of  me  in  this  way?  Why  did  you 
print  that  this  man  is  to  be  nominated  when  I 
know  that  another  one  is!" 

I  explained.    That  didn't  seem  to  satisfy  him. 
He  was  so  angry  that  he  sputtered.     Then  it 
came  out  that  at  a  conference  of  the  bosses  the 
night  before  it  had  been  decided  to  nominate 
a  certain  other  man  who  was  considered  most 
available — he  was  beaten,   by  the  way.     The 
managing  editor  had  been  at  the  conference. 
"Why  didn't  you  tell  me!"  I  asked. 
' '  Get  out ! "  he  yelled.    ' '  Get  out ! " 
It  all  sounded  familiar.     I  wondered  if  aU 

12— Newspaper  Man. 


178  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

managing  editors  acted  that  way.  All  real  ones 
I  had  ever  known  did,  anyhow.  I  left  him  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  and  stood  at  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs  until  the  boys  who  were  on  the 
story  with  me  came  along.  I  told  them  the  story 
and  said  I  thought  I  was  discharged.  They  said 
they'd  quit  if  I  was.  I  told  them  they  probably 
would,  anyhow,  but  we  made  that  compact  and 
went  upstairs  to  see  what  was  coming  out  of  it. 

I  went  in  to  the  managing  editor. 

♦'Chief "  I  began. 

"What  time  does  the  convention  open?'**  he 
asked — rather  irrelevantly,  I  thought. 

''Ten  o'clock." 

''Well,  you'd  better  be  getting  over  there  if 
you're  going  to  do  the  story."  His  eyes 
twinkled.    He  certainly  was  my  friend. 

In  addition  to  my  baseball  and  theatrical 
work,  I  had  been  writing,  several  times  a  week, 
half  a  dozen  short  stories  about  funny  little 
things  I  had  seen  or  heard.  These  we  ran  under 
the  headline,  "Side  Lights  on  Life."  I  noticed, 
on  reading  the  exchanges  to  get  baseball  and 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  179 

theatrical  clippings  for  the  Sunday  edition,  that 
a  paper  in  a  big  city  to  the  west  of  us  reprinted 
a  good  many  of  these  short  stories  of  mine.  ''If 
they  are  good  enough  to  reprint,  why  wouldn't 
that  editor  like  them  at  first  hand?"  I  asked  my- 
self. 

I  determined  to  ask  him.  So  I  went  up  there 
on  my  first  day  off  and  did  ask  him.  He  said 
he  would  like  to  print  them  first  hand  if  he 
knew  who  wrote  them.  I  told  him  I  did.  He 
engaged  me  to  do  theatres,  hotels,  this  short 
stuff  and  specials  and  said  he  would  give  me 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  That  was  as  much 
as  our  city  editor  got.  It  was  wealth  beyond 
the  dreams  of  avarice.  I  went  back,  resigned, 
and  in  two  weeks  I  was  working  in  the  new 
place. 

The  editor  who  gave  me  twenty-five  dollars 
a  week  and  an  opportunity  to  do  the  kind  of 
work  I  liked  is  the  man  to  whom  I  largely  owe 
whatever  success  I  may  have  had  in  life.  Be- 
fore I  came  there  I  had  been  allowed  to  do 
pretty  much  as  I  pleased  and  my  writing  had 


180  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

not  had  the  benefit  of  close  editing.  He  was 
a  man  who  had  begun  somewhat  as  I  had  and 
had  won  his  way  to  the  top  of  that  big  news- 
paper by  sheer  ability  and  hard  work.  Ap- 
parently he  liked  me,  and  I  know  I  liked  him 
immensely,  and  I  consider  him,  to  this  day,  one 
of  the  best  friends  I  ever  had.  At  any  rate, 
he  took  me  in  hand,  held  me  down  to  brass  tacks, 
was  not  at  all  chary  in  pointing  out  my  faults — 
of  which  I  had  many — and  when  I  did  anything 
worth  while  praised  that  work  judicially. 

He  was  a  stylist — not  a  faddist — but  a  writer 
who  believed  in  clear  and  simple  English  and 
could  write  it  so  well  that  I  used  often  to  wonder 
if  I  ever  could  get  the  grasp  of  language  that 
he  had.  He  was  strong,  virile,  and  could  put 
more  in  one  paragraph  than  most  of  the  rest 
of  us  can  get  in  a  column.  Moreover,  he  had 
a  head  packed  full  of  information  and  knew  his 
city  as  well  as  I  knew  the  alphabet.  Night  after 
night  I  have  seen  him  stop  at  the  desk  where 
the  city  directory  was  kept  and  read  a  few 
pages  of  names.     The  result  was  that  as  he 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  181 

looked  over  every  proof  he  spotted  an  error 
instantly,  and  there  was  no  chance  of  any  mis- 
statement of  fact  concerning  local  affairs  get- 
ting by  him.  He  had  a  prodigious  memory  and 
knew  thoroughly  all  the  social,  political  and 
business  intricacies  of  the  town.  He  was  in- 
tolerant of  stupidity,  but  had  a  strong  sense  of 
humor  and  a  vivid  appreciation  of  the  inter- 
esting and  the  human. 

Practically  I  was  working  for  him,  although 
I  was  nominallv  on  the  citv  staff  and  under 
the  city  editor.  I  was  anxious  to  please  and  to 
learn.  There  were  two  reasons  for  this :  First, 
I  was  twenty-two  years  old  and  considered  it 
high  time  for  me  to  get  squared  away  in  the 
work  I  had  chosen  for  life;  and,  second  and 
greater,  I  was  married  and  had  serious  respon- 
sibilities. Everybody  who  Imew  me  said  that 
by  marrying  when  I  was  not  yet  twenty-one  I 
had  proved  that  I  was  the  same  kind  of  a 
sentimental  fool  that  I  was  when  I  dashed  out 
and  bought  a  daily  paper  some  years  before. 
But  I  wasn't.    My  early  marriage  steadied  me, 


182  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

kept  me  from  doing  fool  things,  made  me  chary 
of  shifting  positions,  held  me  where  I  was  until 
I  had  a  good  insight  into  my  trade  and  kept 
me  keen  at  my  job. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  183 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  city  editor  didn't  warm  up  to  me  much 
at  firsts  although  we  became  good  friends  in 
later  years.  I  think  he  had  an  idea  that  the 
managing  editor  had  no  business  to  project 
an  outside  man  into  his  staff  the  way  I  was  put 
in.  Also  my  salary  was  within  a  dollar  or  two 
of  his,  which  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  When  they  put  the  linotypes  into  the 
old  office  a  year  or  so  before  I  changed  base, 
we  all  learned  the  typewriter,  and  I  brought 
mine  with  me  to  the  new  place.  I  was  the  first 
reporter  in  that  city  to  use  a  machine  in  pre- 
paring copy  and  consequently  I  was  an  object 
of  considerable  interest  to  all  the  staff.  Now, 
of  course,  nearly  all  newspaper  copy  is  made 
on  typewriters.  The  introduction  of  the  lino- 
type forced  that,  because  the  typesetting  ma- 
chines are  so  much  faster  than  hand  composition 


184  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

and  the  printers  had  to  have  longer  ** takes'' 
or  sections  of  copy  than  they  could  handle  in 
manuscript  form — decrease  in  bulk  and  increase 
in  legibility — in  order  to  work  the  machines 
advantageously. 

The  paper  was  a  morning  paper,  and  I  went 
to  work  on  a  Monday  afternoon.  My  first  as- 
signment was  the  theatres.  That  night  there 
was  to  be  a  first  production  of  a  new  play.  I 
have  forgotten  what  the  play  was,  but  it  was 
by  some  well-known  dramatist  of  that  day  and 
the  production  was  quite  an  event.  They  gave 
me  two  seats,  which  were  the  regular  critics' 
seats,  but  I  went  alone,  as  I  knew  nobody  in 
the  town  save  a  few  of  the  people  I  had  met 
in  the  office  and  my  wife  was  not  with  me.  A 
very  prosperous  and  pleasant  gentleman  sat 
next  to  me  on  the  aisle,  and  with  him  a  beau- 
tifully gowned  and  most  attractive  lady.  I 
knew  the  paper  had  four  seats  for  every  per- 
formance and  I  figured  that  this  man  must  be 
somebody  important  in  the  organization. 

The  man  did  not  go  out  between  the  acts,  nor 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  185 

did  I,  and  I  overheard  his  conversation  about 
the  new  play — which  was  not  a  very  good  play, 
by  the  way.  The  man  had  a  frank  manner  of 
talking  and  used  some  very  apt  comparisons. 
Also  he  held  the  same  views  about  the  play 
that  I  did.  Hence  on  my  way  back  to  the  office 
I  reasoned  thus :  That  man  undoubtedly  is  high 
up  in  the  conduct  of  my  paper.  He  held  very 
decided  views  about  that  play.  Those  views 
coincide  largely  with  mine.  "V^Tiere  they  do  not 
coincide  with  mine  his  judgment  probably  is 
better  than  mine.  So  1^11  let  him  criticize  the 
play,  as  it  is  up  to  me  to  make  good  here  as 
rapidly  as  possible. 

Wherefore,  instead  of  being  a  critic  of  that 
play  I  became  a  reporter,  mostly,  of  another 
man's  criticism,  for  I  was  terribly  anxious  to 
make  a  good  impression  with  my  first  work  and 
I  considered  that  the  end  justified  the  means. 
I  wrote  a  column  about  the  play  and  it  was 
run  under  a  four-line  head.  Next  morning  I 
was  early  at  the  office.  Soon  after  the  editor 
came  in  the  man  who  sat  next  to  me  at  the 


186  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

theatre  the  night  before  came  in  also.  Before 
he  reached  the  editor's  room  he  called  out: 
''Who  wrote  the  criticism  of  that  play  last 
night  r' 

"Here's  where  I  either  get  it  or  else  don't," 
I  thought,  and  listened  eagerly  for  the  editor's 
reply.    He  spoke  my  name  and  asked,  ''Why?" 

"Because,"  said  the  man,  "I  consider  that 
the  best  piece  of  criticism  this  paper  has  had 
for  some  time." 

Perhaps  that  wasn't  pleasant  to  me!  Five 
minutes  later  I  was  called  in  and  introduced. 
The  man  was  the  owner  and  editor-in-chief  of 
the  paper.  Many  times  after  that  I  wrote  pieces 
he  didn't  like,  and  he  was  always  frank  to  tell 
me  so;  but  he  was  my  loyal  friend  and  stood 
by  me  during  the  five  years  of  my  association 
with  him,  as  I  hope  I  stood  by  him  and  as  I 
always  tried  to  do.  He  died  a  short  time  ago. 
He  was  brave,  able,  manly — a  great  editor  and 
a  great  man. 

Not  long  afterward,  on  a  dull  afternoon,  the 
city  editor  told  me  to  go  out  and  rustle  a  fea- 


NEWSPAPER  MAN"  187 

ture  stoiy  of  some  kind.  ''Let^s  start  a  cru- 
sade/' he  said;  ''it's  been  a  long  time  since  we 
have  jumped  on  anything  for  fair.  You  are 
new  here  and  probably  can  see  things  that  are 
nuisances  which  we  overlook  because  of  their 
familiarity.    Start  something." 

I  went  out  and  took  a  look  around.  The  thing 
that  had  impressed  me  most  while  I  had  been 
in  the  place  was  the  dirtiness  of  the  manufac- 
turing part  of  the  city,  the  enormous  nuisance 
of  the  soft-coal  smoke  that  belched  unceasingly 
from  hundreds  of  chimneys.  The  city  I  came 
from  was  a  hard-coal  town.  I  hadn't  walked 
a  block  before  I  decided  this  was  the  worthy 
subject  of  a  crusade.  I  made  a  few  notes  and 
came  back  and  pounded  out  three  screaming 
columns  about  this  frightful  menace  to  the 
health  and  comfort  of  our  citizens. 

When  I  handed  in  my  copy  the  city  editor 
looked  at  the  first  page  and  chuckled.  I  didn't 
know  why,  for  the  story  was  not  humorous.  It 
was  deadly  serious.  He  ran  through  the  copy 
and  chuckled  some  more.    I  puzzled  over  that 


188  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

chuckle  for  a  long  time.  When  I  looked  at  the 
proofs  I  found  that  he  had  put  a  two-column 
head  on  it  and  it  was  in  the  paper  the  next  morn- 
ing yelping  after  the  smoke  nuisance  like  a  pack 
of  hounds  after  a  fox.  It  looked  pretty  good 
and  I  was  reading  it  wheE  the  proprietor  came 
in.  He  walked  over  to  where  I  was  sitting  and 
said:  ''I  suppose  you  wrote  that  smoke  article 
this  morning?" 

'*Yes,  sir." 

''Well,  it  was  a  fine  article.  I  imagine  yon 
intend  to  follow  it  up  to-day." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied,  all  puffed  up. 

He  smiled  at  me  in  that  kindly  manner  of 
his  and  patted  me  on  the  shoulder.  "Well,  my 
boy, ' '  he  said, ' '  I  wish  you  would  restrain  your- 
self until  we  get  our  smoke  consumers  in.  If 
you  had  observed  carefully  you  would  have  seen 
that  at  present  we  are  one  of  the  worst  smoke 
offenders  in  the  city." 

That  was  all  he  said,  but  then  I  knew  why 
the  city  editor  chuckled. 

What  a  man  he  was!    Three  or  four  years 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  189 

later,  when  I  was  in  charge  of  the  news  of  the 
paper,  one  of  the  police  reporters  brought  in 
a  circumstantial  story  of  a  counterfeiting  gang 
that  had  been  operating  in  our  vicinity.  He 
had  names  and  dates.  This  reporter  was  a 
most  reliable  man.  I  had  implicit  faith  in  him. 
He  said  the  story  was  all  right  and  I  played 
it  up  all  over  the  paper.  It  was  exclusive  also. 
Two  days  later  there  came  a  howl  from  a  man 
in  a  neighboring  city.  His  name  had  been  used 
in  the  story.  He  threatened  a  big  libel  suit,  and 
I  found,  after  investigation,  that  he  had  a  case. 
I  went  to  the  owner  and  assumed  responsibility. 

"I'm  to  blame,"  I  said;  "I  ran  the  story. 
The  police  reporter  thought  he  was  all  right. 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"Better  go  up  and  see  what  they  want,"  he 
advised. 

I  went  to  the  neighboring  city,  wrangled  for 
a  couple  of  days  with  the  man's  lawyers  and 
finally  arranged  a  settlement  for  a  considerable 
sum  of  money.  I  telegraphed  to  the  owner,  he 
telegraphed  the  money  to  me  and  I  got  a  release. 


190  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

Then  I  went  back  and  handed  him  my  resig- 
nation. He  read  it,  said  ''Shucks!"  threw  it 
in  the  waste  basket  and  never  spoke  of  the 
incident  again. 

I  was  in  Canada  one  day  during  my  first  sum- 
mer on  the  paper — Canada  always  furnished 
trouble  for  me — when  I  ran  across  a  big  Liberal 
political  ratification.  I  think  it  was  a  Liberal 
meeting ;  maybe  it  was  a  Conservative  meeting 
— I  have  forgotten  the  exact  brand  of  politics 
displayed  there.  At  any  rate,  it  was  a  political 
ratification  meeting.  I  went  down  to  look  the 
meeting  over,  not  that  I  was  interested  in 
Canadian  politics  or  that  my  paper  was,  but  I 
thought  that  I  might  get  a  story. 

I  got  one,  there  is  no  doubt  about  that.  The 
politics  didn't  appeal  to  me  in  the  least,  but 
the  whiskers  of  the  men  at  the  meeting  did. 
There  were  more  kinds  of  whiskers  worn  at 
that  meeting  by  the  sturdy  Canadian  yeomanry 
than  I  had  ever  seen  gathered  together  at  one 
time.  There  were  whiskers  of  every  variety 
and  of  every  color,  morasses  of  them,  swamps 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  191 

of  them,  meadows  of  them,  wood  limits  of  them, 
acres  of  them — whiskers,  whiskers  everywhere, 
and  not  a  barbershop  in  sight.  There  were  side- 
burns, brannigans,  knockers,  mutton-chops,  full 
beards,  chin  beards,  paint-brushes,  goatees,  im- 
perials, Vandykes — every  known  variety  and 
many  that  had  not  before  that  time  been  classi- 
fied. 

So  I  confined  my  story  to  the  whiskers,  men- 
tioning incidentally  in  the  last  line  that  the  dis- 
play had  been  at  some  kind  of  a  political  meet- 
ing. I  took  up  the  whiskers  in  detail  and  de- 
scribed them,  apostrophized  them,  apotheosized 
them,  laughed  at  them,  admired  them,  stroked 
them  and  rufSfled  them.  I  was  proud  of  that 
story,  and  they  ran  it  in  on  the  first  page.  A 
day  or  two  later  a  Canadian  friend  of  mine, 
who  read  a  good  many  Canadian  papers  in  the 
course  of  his  newspaper  work,  came  in  and  said : 
''Well,  you've  raised  merry  hell  with  that 
whisker  story  of  yours." 

"What's  happened r* 

**0h,  nothing,"  he  replied,  pulling  a  bunch 


192  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

of  newspaper  clippings  out  of  his  pocket,  ''noth- 
ing at  all,  except  that  all  the  Canadian  papers 
of  the  same  political  faith  as  the  persons  at 
that  meeting  are  roasting  the  eternal  tar  out 
of  you  for  insulting  and  villifjdng  their  intel- 
ligent voters,  and  all  the  opposition  papers  are 
quoting  it  and  calling  attention  to  the  kind  of 
rubes  that  make  up  that  constituency. '  ^ 

He  was  right.  For  three  weeks  he  filed  clip- 
pings from  Canadian  papers  and  border  papers 
with  me,  and  the  things  they  said  about  me  were 
not  fit  for  polite  reading.  The  letter-writing 
brigade — always  strong  in  Canada — got  under 
way,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  insulted 
the  Queen  or  done  some  other  terrible  thing. 
My  editor  thought  it  was  a  joke,  and  so  it  was, 
but  it  reacted.  I  have  all  the  clippings  pasted 
in  a  book,  with  the  original  article  leading.  The 
title  of  the  book  is  Notes  on  Whiskers.  Any 
time  I  want  to  say  anything  mean  about  a  per- 
son I  can  find  inspiration  and  language  in  that 
book. 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  193 


CHAPTER  XXII 

For  the  first  year  my  editor  disciplined  me 
pretty  thoroughly.  He  clubbed  a  lot  of  writing 
defects  out  of  me,  curbed  a  lot  of  foolish  en- 
thusiasm, encouraged  any  good  idea  I  had,  let 
me  go  to  the  limit  when  I  was  right  and  held 
me  sternly  in  check  when  I  was  at  a  tangent. 
He  took  me  over  on  the  editorial  page,  where  I 
was  directly  under  his  eye,  gave  me  a  paragraph 
department  to  do  and  smoothed  me  out  to  a 
great  extent.  Then  when  I  was  beginning  to 
have  an  inkling  of  my  business  he  turned  over 
the  news  end  of  the  paper  to  me.  It  was  a 
departure,  for  before  that  time  the  city  editor 
had  been  supreme  in  the  local  end  and  the  tele- 
graph editor  in  his  department.  I  was  made 
responsible  for  both  ends. 

Naturally  I  was  full  of  ideas.  I  tried  on  a 
good  many  of  them.     The  editor  was  tolerant 

13 — Newspaper  Man. 


194  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

and  let  me  have  full  swing,  and  I  soon  found 
what  would  work  and  what  would  not.  Then 
the  city  editor  went  on  the  Sunday  paper  and 
I  took  the  actual  city  desk  and  also  kept  my 
supei'vision  of  the  other  news  department.  I 
put  in  a  copyreader,  the  first  we  had  had,  and 
right  there  I  began  to  grow  a  little.  Also  I 
had  had  my  salary  raised  several  times  and  was 
getting  along  comfortably. 

There  was  one  good  way  of  making  outside 
money — to  get  an  appointment  as  a  local  cor- 
respondent for  a  New  York  or  Chicago  or  Phila- 
delphia paper.  New  York  papers  were  best. 
The  rivalry  for  these  places  was  keen  among 
the  reporters  in  the  city.  Usually  when  a  cor- 
respondent for  a  New  York  or  Chicago  paper 
left  our  town  or  quit  for  some  reason  his  recom- 
mendation was  sufficient  to  insure  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  new  man  in  that  field.  Hence,  though 
the  managing  editors  in  New  York  and  Chi- 
cago didn't  know  it,  there  was  a  cash  value  to 
the  jobs  aside  from  the  money  that  could  be 
made  from  month  to  month.    They  were  legit- 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  195 

imate  articles  of  barter.  A  big  paper,  that  had 
a  liberal  news  policy  and  would  take  a  fair  pro- 
portion of  the  news  offered,  was  worth  a  good- 
sized  sura  of  money  as  a  business  proposition. 
The  first  one  I  secured  was  the  New  York 
paper  for  which  I  worked  for  a  good  many 
years  later  in  life.  The  man  who  had  the  job 
was  leaving  town  and,  on  consideration  of 
seventy-five  dollars  in  hand  paid,  recommended 
me  as  the  person  best  fitted  to  succeed  him,  and 
I  was  appointed.  Some  weeks  when  news  of 
that  section  was  lively  I  made  as  high  as  fifteen 
or  twenty  dollars  in  addition  to  my  salary.  It 
was  a  very  poor  week,  indeed,  when  I  could  not 
get  in  five  dollars'  worth  of  stuff.  Also  I 
learned  there  the  trick  of  making  alluring 
*' queries."  No  outside  paper,  except  in  the 
case  of  most  important  and  late  stories,  allowed 
its  correspondent  to  send  in  the  news  without 
first  telegraphing  to  the  office,  stating  briefly 
what  the  story  was  and  how  many  words  in  the 
judgment  of  the  correspondent  it  was  worth. 
These   queries   were  numbered  and   read   like 


196  THE   MAKING    OF   A 

this:  ''Big  fire  in  factory;  fourteen  killed; 
300 " ;  or  "  Sensational  shooting  on  fashionable 
street;  well-known  people  involved;  750";  and 
the  news  editor  at  the  other  end  of  the  wire 
would  order  as  many  or  as  few  words  as  he 
wanted.  Naturally  no  story  was  underplayed 
in  these  bulletins.  It  was  not  long  before  I 
found  out  what  kind  of  news  the  outside  papers 
preferred,  and  I  scheduled  that  kind  insistently 
whenever  there  was  even  a  remote  chance  of 
getting  any  space.  As  a  result  of  the  expansion 
and  perfection  of  the  service  of  the  press  asso- 
ciations the  correspondence  item  probably  is 
not  so  important  to-day  as  it  was  in  those  days. 
Then  we  made  a  good  deal  of  easy  money  out 
of  it.  Besides,  when  there  was  a  local  story 
big  enough  to  warrant  sending  a  staff  man 
after  it  from  the  outside  offices  we  got  pay  for 
helping  him. 

My  editor  had  been  liberal  with  me  and  had 
allowed  me  to  hire  good  men.  I  was  making 
about  fifty  dollars  a  week  when  I  worked  seven 
days,  and  I  had  two  men  on  the  local  staff  who 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  197 

were  getting  twenty-five  dollars  each  and  one 
who  was  getting  thirty.  This  man  drifted  in 
one  day  and  asked  for  a  place.  I  gave  him  a 
try-out,  and  hired  him.  He  was  the  best  re- 
porter I  ever  knew,  bar  none,  and  I  have  known 
all  the  good  ones  in  the  past  twenty-five  years. 
These  salaries  were  large  for  the  town.  There 
never  had  been  anything  like  it  before,  nor  had 
there  ever  been  a  local  staff  like  that  before  in 
that  town.  It  was  a  compact,  reliable  and  at 
times  brilliant  news-gathering  machine,  and  we 
put  out  a  paper  that  was  excellent  in  every 
way.    Those  were  good  days. 

From  a  reportorial  viewpoint  every  city 
editor  is  the  meanest  man  on  earth.  He  has  to 
be.  His  job  requires  it.  It  is  a  natural  and 
inherent  reportorial  tendency  to  think  one's 
particular  work  the  most  important  on  the 
paper,  to  want  all  the  big  stories,  to  protest 
violently  when  his  stuff  is  cut  or  not  handled 
properly — as  he  thinks — and  constantly  to  howl 
about  the  smallness  of  his  wage.  He  holds  the 
city  editor  personally  responsible  for  all  these 


198  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

things.  On  the  other  hand,  the  city  editor  is 
held  responsible  by  the  editor  for  the  expense 
of  his  department  and  for  the  thoroughness  of 
the  work  of  his  staff ;  and  inasmuch  as  reporters 
are  not  especially  amenable  to  discipline,  he 
must  be  rigid  and  unyielding  or  he  will  soon 
find  himself  in  trouble  with  the  man  in  the  in- 
side office. 

I  don't  suppose  I  was  the  pleasantest  city 
editor  on  earth.  I  was  quick-tempered,  arbi- 
trary, inclined  to  be  sarcastic  over  a  failure, 
and  I  made  the  men  work  hard  and  long;  but 
I  got  along  fairly  well  for  all  that.  I  think  the 
staff  liked  me;  at  any  rate  I  liked  the  staff. 
The  editor  gave  me  practically  a  free  hand. 
I  could  hire  and  discharge  almost  at  will,  and 
did.  Every  now  and  then  even  to  this  day  I 
hear  things  about  myself  from  men  I  discharged 
for  lapses  of  discipline  or  failure  or  lack  of 
ability.  Still  that  part  of  it  is  but  a  feature 
of  the  game.     I  don't  blame  them. 

Once  in  a  while  I  wrote  a  story  myself,  and 
I  wrote  many  introductions  to  big  stories.    I  had 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  199 

a  good  newspaper  style  and  could  see  the  salient 
point  of  a  story  and  bring  it  out  vividly  and 
concisely.  Also  I  had  a  fair  sense  of  humor  and 
kept  the  paper  lively.  I  was  a  stern  young  per- 
son and  believed  that  everything  that  happened 
should  be  printed.  One  night  at  midnight  the 
head  of  the  police  department  decided  on  a  gen- 
eral raid  of  all  the  questionable  resorts  in  the 
city.  He  made  a  thorough  job  of  it,  apparently 
for  the  purpose  of  satisfying  himself  just  how 
far  he  could  go.  He  evidently  thought  over 
the  matter  and  concluded  that  at  that  time  of 
night,  with  none  of  the  courts  working  and  with 
the  mayor  asleep,  he  was  the  czar  and  he  started 
out  to  prove  it.  The  result  was  that  in  an  hour 
he  had  three  or  four  precinct  station  houses 
packed  with  an  assortment  of  people  that 
ranged  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  In  news- 
paper parlance  we  ''ate  that  story  up."  I 
spread  it  all  over  the  first  page  of  the  paper 
with  a  three-column  head.  It  so  happened  that 
Dean  Hole,  the  English  clergyman,  was  lectur- 
ing in  the  city  that  night.    In  the  book  he  sub- 


200  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

sequently  wrote  giving  his  impressions  of 
America  he  reprinted  that  headline  and  cited 
it  as  a  horrible  example  of  the  American  news- 
paper tendency  to  sensationalism,  virtuously 
reflecting  that  no  English  newspaper  would  have 
done  such  a  thing.  Which  probably  is  the 
truth,  but  we  did  it,  and  that  story  was  a  wonder 
and  stood  that  town  on  its  head. 

This  tendency  to  print  all  the  news  got  me 
into  hot  water  several  times,  for  I  refused  to 
suppress  news  that  the  friends  of  the  owner 
wanted  suppressed  just  as  impartially  as  I  de- 
lighted in  printing  news  his  enemies  didn^t  want 
printed.  He  stood  by  me,  too,  and  so  did  my 
editor;  only  one  day,  when  I  had  done  some 
particularly  obnoxious  thing  to  a  friend  of  the 
owner  *s,  the  owner  came  in  and  asked  pathetic- 
ally, '^ Great  Scott,  aren't  you  going  to  leave 
me  any  friends  at  all!"  That  paper  was  abso- 
lutely independent.  It  had  no  political  affili- 
ations save  the  broad  support  of  the  better  prin- 
ciples of  the  Republican  party,  and  this  left 
the  editor  and  myself — subordinate  to  him — in 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  201 

clover,  especially  as  the  business  office  couldn't 
interfere  either.  Whenever  there  was  a  local 
candidate  for  office  whom  we  didn't  like  we 
said  so,  not  taking  any  pains  to  be  pleasant 
about  it  either.  There  were  no  strings  on  us, 
and  we  had  a  lot  of  fun  and  got  a  good  many 
results. 


202  THE   MAKING   OF   A 


CHAPTEE  XXin 

Ours  was  a  big  city  and  yet  a  small  one. 
Local  politics  were  as  intense  as  in  a  village; 
local  jealousies  interfered  with  many  plans  for 
improvement;  local  enterprise  was  at  times 
flamboyant  and  at  times  dead.  There  was  one 
central  gathering  place — the  big  hotel — and  at 
luncheon  time  almost  everybody  of  importance 
could  be  found  there.  Here  politics  was  planned 
and  business  was  discussed.  Also  at  five  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  the  leaders  in  the  various 
phases  of  the  city's  life  generally  dropped  in. 
It  was  like  the  store  in  the  village.  Everybody 
knew  everybody  else,  for  when  you  got  down 
to  it  the  big  outside  population  did  not  count 
much  in  affairs.  The  town  was  a  good  news 
town.  It  was  a  big  railroad  centre,  a  big  manu- 
facturing place  and  held  a  most  important  com- 
mercial position.     Always  something  was  stir- 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  203 

ring,  and  in  our  paper  we  made  the  most  of 
what  there  was. 

It  was  a  great  five  years  for  me.  Along  in 
my  fourth  year  on  the  paper  the  owner  and  the 
editor  gave  me  the  title  of  managing  editor. 
I  thought  I  had  arrived.  The  first  sheet  of  office 
letter  paper  I  had  with  my  name  on  it  as  man- 
aging editor  I  used  for  a  letter  to  my  father, 
calling  his  attention  to  his  gloomy  predictions 
of  some  years  before  and  asking  him  to  observe 
what  had  happened.  His  observations  in  an- 
swer were  pertinent,  I  may  say,  and  admonitory. 
They  consisted  of  a  short  communication  in 
which  he  dwelt  on  the  dangers  of  getting  a 
swelled  head,  pointing  out  a  few  symptoms  in 
my  own  case. 

Once,  before  I  left  the  old  town  I  had  been 
offered  a  political  job  there.  I  was  told  that 
I  could  be  deputy  county  clerk  if  I  wanted  to, 
and  that  the  salary  would  be  two  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year.  I  was  getting  less  than  a  thousand 
dollars  a  year  at  the  time  and  I  was  sorely 
tempted,  but  I  had  sense  enough  to  decline.    I 


204  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

had  seen  many  other  newspaper  men  leave 
newspaper  work  for  political  places,  secretary- 
ships and  the  like,  or  to  go  into  business,  but 
I  had  concluded  if  I  had  any  future  at  all  it 
was  in  newspaper  work.  Only  one  other  temp- 
tation to  get  out  of  this  line  of  work  came  to 
me,  although  like  all  of  my  kind  I  was  con- 
stantly talking  in  those  days  of  the  grind  and 
the  lack  of  future  and  similar  rot.  I  had  made 
many  friends  among  the  managers  and  advance 
agents  of  the  theatrical  business  while  at  dra- 
matic work,  and  one  of  these  managers  told 
me  that  if  I  wanted  it  I  could  have  a  place  at 
seventy-five  dollars  a  week  as  advance  agent 
for  a  good  star.  I  went  down  to  New  York — 
it  was  my  first  visit  to  New  York,  by  the 
way — looked  things  over  and  didn't  accept. 
That  was  the  second  time  in  my  life  I  showed 
ordinary  common  sense. 

New  York  is  the  Mecca  of  all  newspaper  men 
working  elsewhere.  Park  Row  is  the  candle  in 
which  many  country  reportorial  moths  singe 
their  wings.    There  were  times  when  I  wanted 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  205 

to  go  to  New  York  right  away  and  I  made  one 
or  two  efforts  to  do  so,  for  I  was  ambitious. 
I  had  many  friends  among  New  York  news- 
paper men,  all  of  whom  urged  me  to  get  into 
the  game  down  there,  but  I  stuck  and  I  am  glad 
I  did.  When  I  did  get  to  New  York  I  was  pretty 
well  equipped  for  the  grueling  work  there. 

Finally  what  I  thought  was  a  big  opportunity 
came  to  me.  A  local  rich  man  who  had  mixed 
in  politics  and  wanted  to  mix  more  bought  an 
afternoon  newspaper.  He  spread  himself  on 
hiring  men  at  fancy — for  us — salaries,  im- 
ported an  editor  and  went  at  the  job  of  securing 
power  for  himself  through  the  medium  of  the 
newspaper  business.  A  year  or  so  later  he 
started  a  morning  paper  and  then  bought  the 
other  morning  paper — ^not  ours — and  combined 
it  with  his  own.  He  had  approached  me  several 
times  with  offers  of  positions,  but  I  had  not 
been  responsive. 

Almost  on  the  very  day  my  five  years  ended 
he  made  me  a  proposition  that  caught  me.  He 
offered  me  the  position  of  editor  of  his  after- 


206  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

noon  paper  at  four  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
This  was  much  more  money  than  I  was  getting. 
It  was  more  money  than  any  newspaper  man 
in  the  city  was  getting,  with  the  exception  of 
one  or  two.  Besides,  since  I  was  eighteen  I  had 
been  working  practically  all  the  time  on  morn- 
ing newspapers  and  sleeping  in  the  daytime, 
and  I  thought  it  would  be  great  to  have  my 
evenings  to  mj^self.  My  wife  coincided  with  this 
view.  Except  on  days  off  I  was  only  in  the 
house  to  eat  and  sleep. 

I  saw  my  owner  and  my  editor.  They  said 
they  couldn  't  meet  the  raise,  so  I  took  the  other 
place.  ''I'll  have  to  have  a  contract  for  two 
years,"  I  said  to  my  new  employer. 

"All  right,"  he  replied;  "have  one  drawn 
up." 

I  went  to  a  lawyer  and  he  drew  up  a  contract 
for  me.  It  was  iron-clad  so  far  as  I  was  con- 
cerned. My  new  employer  signed  it  without 
reading  it.  He  was  as  anxious  to  get  me  then 
as  he  was  later  to  get  rid  of  me.  That  contract 
proved  a  mighty  good  thing  for  me  later  on. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  207 

I  hired  some  of  the  best  men  in  the  city  and 
we  started  in.  We  made  a  good  paper.  I 
think  all  who  read  it  will  admit  that,  but  it  was 
not  a  successful  paper.  Another  afternoon 
paper  had  the  biggest  circulation  in  the  town 
and  still  another  had  the  Democratic  circulation. 
Of  the  four  afternoon  publications  ours  re- 
mained consistently  third  in  spite  of  everything 
I  or  my  men  could  do — and  we  worked  like 
slaves.  As  a  result  before  the  end  of  my  first 
year  the  owner  and  I  were  at  loggerheads. 

We  were  constantly  embroiled  with  the  other 
newspapers  and  always  on  the  losing  side  in 
politics.  I  kept  my  staff  together  as  best  I 
could,  but  the  owner  was  constantly  growling 
about  the  expense.  Besides,  there  was  great 
friction  between  the  staffs  of  the  morning  and 
the  afternoon  papers,  and  I  wished  a  hundred 
times  I  had  not  left  my  old  place.  I  was  very 
unhappy,  but  I  was  under  contract.  I  cursed 
that  contract  in  those  days  as  much  as  I  blessed 
it  later. 

Things  went  from  bad  to  worse.     The  mom- 


208  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

ing  paper  was  getting  circulation  and  we  were 
standing  still.  I  had  a  fight  on  with  the  morn- 
ing paper,  with  the  business  office,  with  the  pro- 
prietor and  with  everybody  else.  I  tried  to  pull 
the  paper  out,  but  I  couldn't  budge  it.  I  was 
the  first  man  down  in  the  morning  and  the  last 
to  leave  at  night.  We  tried  guessing  contests 
and  many  other  forms  of  allurement,  but  there 
was  no  change — our  circulation  was  stationary. 

The  owner  had  the  merit  of  being  frank  in  his 
displeasure.  He  told  me  what  he  thought.  I 
told  him  what  I  thought  also.  One  day  he  sent 
for  me  to  come  over  to  his  office.  I  went  and 
found  him  at  his  desk,  glowering  at  a  circulation 
statement. 

**You  ain't  doin'  much,"  he  exploded. 

**Not  much,"  I  admitted. 

''Well,  I  got  to  have  a  change  round  here. 
Fire  those  men  an'  come  back  an'  tell  ine  you've 
done  it." 

He  handed  me  a  list  containing  the  names  of 
nine  men  on  my  staff.  The  list  included  all  my 
friends  on  the  paper  and  all  my  best  men. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  209 

"All  right,"  I  said,  and  walked  out.  I  went 
over  to  the  editorial  rooms,  called  the  men  in 
in  a  bmich  and  gave  them  a  week's  notice. 
''You  are  all  discharged,"  I  said — "orders  of 
the  boss." 

"Have  you  fired  'em?"  he  asked  when  I  re- 
turned. 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  "you  won't  be  very 
comfortable  around  here  now  all  your  pals  are 
gone." 

'  Not  very, ' ' 

'Well,  hadn't  you  better  quit!" 

I  laughed  at  him.  "I  would,"  I  said,  "if  I 
could.  My  sense  of  moral  obligation  to  you 
will  not  allow  me  to.  Besides,  I  would  be  sure 
to  get  into  legal  difficulties.  Duty  calls  me  and 
I  must  obey.    I  shall  serve  out  my  term," 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  growled. 

"Why,  had  you  forgotten  my  contract!  That 
binds  me.  I  cannot  evade  the  responsibilities 
of  that  instrument,  I  must  remain,  painful  as 
it  is  to  me  and  to  you." 

14 — Newspaper  Man. 


if 
ii 


210  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

He  scowled.  ''Let  me  see  that  contract,"  he 
demanded. 

"You've  got  a  copy,"  I  retorted;  "look  at 
your  own.  I'll  quit  when  you  pay  me  the  full 
remaining  face  value  of  that  contract  and  not 
before."  ^ 

He  sent  for  the  contract  and  his  lawyer.  It 
was  the  first  time  either  of  them  had  read  that 
document.  My  lawyer  friend  had  done  his  work 
well.  There  was  fifteen  hundred  dollars  due, 
but  we  compromised  on  twelve  hundred  dollars. 
The  next  morning  I  walked  out  of  the  place  with 
twelve  one-hundred-dollar  bills  in  my  pocket, 
and  I  never  went  back.  I  never  blamed  him  for 
getting  rid  of  me.  I  could  not  make  his  paper 
go,  nor  has  anybody  else  been  able  to;  but  I 
have  always  blamed  him  for  throwing  out  the 
others.  They  were  doing  good  work  and  the 
fault  was  not  theirs.  However,  all  of  them  were 
soon  provided  for,  and  that,  I  suppose,  was  his 
way. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  211 


CHAPTER  XXIV; 

There  was  nothing  left  for  me  in  that  city. 
I  went  fishing  for  a  time  and  then  went  to  New 
York.  I  thought  I  was  ripe  for  work  down 
there.  However,  nobody  else  thought  so  to  any 
great  extent.  One  Park  Row  paper  offered  me 
a  job  at  twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  but  I 
wouldn't  take  that,  and  another  managing 
editor  held  out  hopes  for  several  weeks  and 
then  refused  to  give  me  a  chance.  Still  I  had 
plenty  of  money  and  plenty  of  good  friends  in 
the  business  and  I  knew  it  was  only  a  matter 
of  time. 

Some  of  my  friends  put  me  in  with  one  of 
the  state  committees  to  help  in  the  literary 
bureau,  and  I  wrote  miles  and  miles  of  campaign 
stuff  commending  the  hero  of  San  Juan  Hill, 
Colonel  Roosevelt,  who  was  then  running  for 
governor  of  the  state.     The  Colonel  squeaked 


212  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

through,  and  my  job  squeaked  out  at  the  iden- 
tical moment  he  squeaked  in. 

Meantime  I  noticed  that  a  certain  magazine 
was  running  a  series  of  articles  called  Great 
Business  Organizations  and  was  detailing  the 
methods  of  some  of  the  larger  corporations.  I 
had  been  observant  while  I  was  working  with 
the  committee  and  had  learned  a  great  deal 
about  the  business  of  running  a  state  campaign. 
It  was  a  business,  too,  not  a  haphazard  venture, 
and  it  had  that  great  business  man  and  poli- 
tician, Benjamin  B.  Odell,  Junior,  at  the  head 
of  it.  So  I  wrote  for  that  series  an  article  de- 
scribing the  business  end  of  a  state  campaign, 
and  I  submitted  it  to  the  magazine. 

A  few  days  after  the  election  I  was  taken  on 
the  local  staff  of  one  of  the  New  York  papers. 
It  was  one  of  the  smaller  papers.  I  had  measly 
assignments  and  made  forty-one  dollars  in  ten 
days.  On  the  tenth  day  I  received  a  letter  from 
the  editor  of  the  magazine  to  which  I  had  sent 
my  article,  inclosing  a  check  for  fifty  dollars 
and  an  invitation  to  come  and  see  him.    I  went. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  213 

We  had  a  talk.  He  hired  me  to  work  for  a  news- 
paper syndicate  he  had  bought  and  for  his 
magazine.  I  went  back  to  the  newspaper  office 
and  quit.    They  didn't  seem  to  mind. 

I  stayed  with  the  magazine  for  nearly  two 
years,  getting  a  good  general  idea  of  the  busi- 
ness, for  I  worked  in  the  advertising  depart- 
ment, the  circulation  department  and,  later,  on 
the  editorial  side,  where  in  a  few  months  I  be- 
came managing  editor.  I  didn't  get  much  salary 
at  the  start,  but  I  was  advanced  rapidly  and  had 
a  chance  to  do  some  writing.  I  had  decided  to 
stick  to  writing.  I  had  had  all  the  desk  work 
I  needed,  for  though  I  felt  I  had  been  successful 
on  the  first  paper  where  I  had  an  executive 
desk,  I  knew  I  had  failed  on  the  second.  Be- 
sides I  had  figured  out  there  was  more  money 
in  writing — if  one  could  write — than  in  the 
executive  work.    I  thought  I  could  write. 

One  afternoon — it  was  a  holiday,  Lincoln's 
Birthday,  I  think — I  was  coming  downtown  on 
the  elevated  road  and  happened  on  two  friends 
who  were  on  newspapers  in  the  city.    They  had 


214  THE   MAKING    OF   A 

a  day  off,  too,  and  we  spent  our  liberty  together. 
Along  about  six  o'clock  one  of  them  said: 
''There  is  a  big  Chinese  banquet  down  in  Mott 
Street  to-night.  I've  got  several  tickets  in  my 
desk.     Let's  get  them  and  look  it  over.'^ 

We  went.  I  was  given  a  seat  at  the  table  next 
to  a  big,  fine-looking  man  whom  I  had  met  be- 
fore. He  didn't  remember  it,  but  I  did.  He 
was  the  man  who  had  so  emphatically  refused 
to  give  me  a  place  in  Chicago  some  years  back. 
I  didn't  mention  that,  but  talked  the  best  I 
knew  how  to  my  editorial  friend.  He  was  then 
editorial  director  of  the  biggest  New  York 
paper.  The  New  York  grind  killed  him,  but 
what  a  whale  of  an  editor  he  was !  One  of  the 
friends  who  went  to  the  banquet  with  me  had 
been  urging  me  to  get  back  into  the  game.  I 
had  already  decided  to  do  so  some  time  before, 
because  stuck  away  as  I  was  in  the  editorial 
rooms  of  a  magazine  I  missed  the  grip  of  active 
newspaper  work. 

The  editorial  director  and  I  went  uptown 
together.    We  talked  a  lot.     I  told  him  about 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  215 

myself  and  that  I  should  like  to  get  back  into 
the  game.  Also  my  newspaper  friends  put  in 
a  few  good  words.  Next  day  I  got  a  telegram 
from  him.  It  said:  ''I  have  been  wondering 
since  I  talked  with  you  last  night  if  there  is  not 
some  work  on  our  paper  you  would  like  to  take 
up.     What  do  you  think"?" 

I  thought  there  was.  I  went  down  to  see  him 
and  he  hired  me  to  go  to  Washington  to  run  the 
Washington  bureau  for  that  paper.  He  gave 
me  a  good,  big  salary,  which  increased  as  the 
years  went  on.  I  was  then  thirty-two  years 
old  and  I  again  felt  I  had  arrived.  That  time 
it  was  true. 


216  THE   MAKING   OF  A 


CHAPTER  XXV 

One  of  the  rights  guaranteed  under  the  Con- 
stitution is  that  every  American  shall  have  full 
privilege  to  think  and  say  his  own  particular 
business  is  a  poor  business  and  that  he  would 
have  made  a  much  greater  success  in  any  other 
line  of  endeavor.  Newspaper  men  exercise  this 
right  unreservedly.  There  never  is  a  gathering 
of  reporters  or  editors  that  the  talk  does  not 
eventually  shift  round  to  the  lack  of  reward, 
the  hopelessness  as  to  future,  and  the  general 
worthlessness  of  newspaper  work  as  a  career. 
Usually,  too,  the  youngsters  are  the  loudest  in 
condemnation.  After  a  boy  has  been  a  reporter 
for  a  year  he  thinks  he  knows  all  there  is  to 
know  about  his  work,  and  maybe  he  does.  At 
any  rate  he  tells  you  what  a  barren  field  journal- 
ism is,  that  it  gets  a  man  nowhere,  and  that  for 
the  brains  and  service  required  a  man  in  any 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  217 

other  profession  would  make  mucli  more  money 
and  much  more  reputation.  Men  older  in  the 
business  talk  about  the  same. 

Now  I  do  not  contend  a  man  can  get  rich  or 
even  well-to-do  in  newspaper  work  except  as 
an  owner;  but  I  do  contend  that  if  a  man  has 
an  aptness  for  the  business  and  will  take  the 
time  to  learn  it,  he  can  do  about  as  well  as  if 
he  went  into  any  of  the  other  professions — and 
have  a  thousand  times  more  fun.  At  the  start 
he  can  do  better  than  he  could  do  in  law  or 
medicine  or  usuallv  in  commercial  business.  The 
great  difficulty  with  the  newspaper  business  is 
that  experience  counts  for  little  or  nothing.  An 
experienced  doctor  or  an  experienced  lawyer 
or  an  experienced  banker  gets  better  fees  and 
is  held  in  higher  regard  because  of  his  experi- 
ence. After  a  certain  stage,  experience  in  news- 
paper work  counts  for  nothing.  The  great  as- 
sets are  youth  and  legs. 

One  often  wonders  what  becomes  of  the  old 
men  in  newspaper  work.  You  will  find  them 
stuck  away  at  copy  desks,  or  reading  exchanges, 


218  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

editing  routine  departments  or  writing  editorial 
articles.  If  you  look  round  tlie  press  desks  at 
a  National  Convention,  for  example,  where 
every  newspaper  has  its  best  men,  you  will  see 
the  gray  heads  are  largely  outnumbered  by  the 
young  men — ^men  about  tliirty — who  in  addition 
to  knowing  as  much  about  their  business  as  the 
older  ones,  have  the  stamina  to  do  the  tremen- 
dously hard  work. 

Granting  all  this,  I  still  hold  that  if  a  young 
man  has  an  aptitude  for  newspaper  work  and 
will  learn  his  trade,  there  is  no  better  career 
in  this  country  or  any  other  than  newspaper 
work.  In  making  this  claim  I  do  not  arrogate 
to  myself  any  special  qualifications  as  a  judge 
except  these :  I  was  actively  in  daily  newspaper 
work  from  the  time  I  was  eighteen  until  I  was 
thirty-nine.  I  left  daily  work  then  because  I 
found  a  broader  field  for  my  writing,  a  field 
where  I  could  utilize  my  experience  and  such 
knowledge  of  men  and  affairs  as  I  had  gained 
in  those  twenty-one  years.  I  still  consider  my- 
self just  as  much  of  a  newspaper  man  as  I  ever 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  219 

was,  and  entitled  to  my  opinion.  My  work  has 
covered  everything,  from  a  country  weekly  to 
the  biggest  assignments  on  the  biggest  news- 
paper in  the  United  States,  which  means  the 
biggest  in  the  world.  I  have  played  the  whole 
string,  and  have  some  thoughts  on  the  subject. 
A  young  man  starts  in  newspaper  work  as  a 
reporter.  That  is  his  apprenticeship.  In  rare 
cases  a  man  may  start  as  an  editorial  writer  or 
as  a  specialist,  but  unless  he  has  been  a  reporter 
and  has  learned  that  end  of  the  work  he  never 
amounts  to  very  much.  The  work  of  the  re- 
porters is  the  heart's  blood  of  the  newspaper. 
They  bring  in  the  news.  What  they  find  out  and 
write  is  what  the  editorial  writer  must  base  his 
comments  on,  and  woe  be  to  the  editorial  writer 
who  does  not  keep  in  touch  with  the  news  staff. 
He  gets  to  be  an  academic  prig,  who  invariably 
forms  his  own  opinions  from  the  editorials  he 
reads  in  his  favorite  papers.  Eeal  editorial 
writers  never  are  anything  but  real  reporters, 
with  the  privilege  of  commenting  instead  of  re- 
citing.    The   old-fashioned   commentator,  who 


220  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

shut  himself  up  in  a  coop  and  spun  out  theories, 
is  rapidly  passing  away.  He  has  been  lost  in 
the  shuffle. 

In  the  newest  and  most  advanced  newspaper 
building  in  this  country,  not  long  completed, 
there  isn't  a  coop  or  a  cavern  or  a  private  room 
on  the  editorial  floor.  Every  man  who  has  to 
do  with  the  editorial  end  of  that  paper,  from 
the  humblest  reporter  to  the  imposing  editor- 
in-chief,  sits  on  one  floor,  out  in  the  open,  each 
man  in  touch  with  every  other  man.  Why? 
Because  the  reporters  who  bring  in  and  write 
the  news  are  the  mainspring  of  the  paper.  Be- 
cause it  is  essential  that  every  man  on  that  paper 
shall  be  in  close  communication  with  the  scouts 
who  are  finding  out  what  that  big  town  is  doing 
and  what  the  world  is  doing — for  the  telegraph 
news  is  all  furnished  by  reporters  also — in  order 
to  construct  an  intelligent  and  forceful  paper 
that  shall  contain  an  adequate  presentation  of 
what  is  happening  in  the  world,  adequately  com- 
mented upon,  displayed  and  handled. 

No  managing  editor  or  city  editor  or  editor- 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  221 

in-chief  of  a  daily  newspaper  ever  amounted  to 
more  than  a  pedantic  whoop  who  was  not  at  the 
start  a  good  reporter.  There  are  plenty  of 
them,  of  course,  who  never  were  good  reporters, 
but  they  are  not  good  editors  either.  They  are 
imitations  of  the  real  thing.  Go  into  any  big 
newspaper  office  in  this  country  and  you  will 
find  that  the  big  men  in  charge  served  their 
grueling  apprenticeship  on  the  local  staff,  and 
usually  on  the  local  staff  of  some  paper  or 
papers  in  much  smaller  cities  than  they  are 
working  in  now.  The  reporter  is  the  foundation 
of  the  game.  He  is  the  arch  and  keystone 
and  the  pillars.  An  editor  may  be  the  most  bril- 
liant of  persons,  but  he  is  a  dub  unless  he  has 
a  staff  to  report  for  him  and  to  him,  both  locally 
and  bv  wire. 

Wherefore,  let  us  look  a  little  into  this  ques- 
tion of  good  reporters.  There  are  two  broad 
classes:  The  good  reporter  who  can  get  the 
news  but  cannot  write  it  except  in  an  ordinary 
way  and  the  good  reporter  who  can  get  the  news 
and  write  it  in  an  extraordinary  way.    I  have 


222  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

heard  legends  of  good  reporters  with  wonderful 
noses  for  news  who  could  bring  in  stories  but 
could  not  put  them  up  in  decent  shape.  Every 
town  and  every  office  has  had  or  has  now  one 
or  two  of  these  rough  diamonds.  Although  I 
do  not  want  to  disparage  them  any,  the  reporter 
who  gets  anywhere  is  the  chap  who  not  only 
can  find  the  news,  but,  having  found  it,  can  write 
it.  You  will  discover  that  the  good  reporters 
who  are  valuable  as  news  men  only  are  the 
boys  who  are  and  have  been  for  years  lingering 
round  at  forty  and  fifty  and  sixty  dollars  a  week, 
while  the  writing  chap  collects  the  big  space 
bills. 

Writing  is  just  as  much  of  a  trade  as  laying 
bricks  or  putting  in  plumbing.  Of  course  now 
and  then  a  genius  flashes  who  writes  intuitively, 
but  most  of  the  men  who  are  getting  the  money 
for  writing  in  this  country  are  men  who  have 
learned  to  write,  just  as  a  bricklayer  learned 
to  lay  bricks.  Getting  the  money  may  be  an 
inartistic  and,  perhaps,  a  crass  way  of  identify- 
ing the  end  and  aim  of  writing,  but  there  are 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  223 

very  few  people  in  this  country  who  write  for 
any  other  real  reason.  They  say  they  do,  but 
they  do  not.  The  boys  with  the  messages  to 
deliver  may  be  sincere  about  their  messages, 
but  they  are  also  concerned  about  the  checks. 

The  only  way  to  learn  to  write  is  to  write. 
You  cannot  get  it  out  of  books  or  by  any  other 
method  than  by  grinding  it  out,  and  right  here 
is  where  the  newspaper  owners  and  editors  of 
this  country  do  most  to  injure  themselves  and  a 
good  many  of  their  men.  It  is  almost  the  uni- 
versal custom,  especially  in  the  smaller  offices 
where  the  good  reporters  come  from,  to  grab 
a  youngster  who  shows  ability  and  aptitude  and 
has  the  earmarks  of  good  writing  on  him,  and 
make  some  kind  of  a  desk  man  of  him.  Thus 
you  will  find  that  the  bright  boy,  who  if  he  were 
kept  at  it  and  properly  encouraged  would  de- 
velop into  a  star  writer,  is  made  a  city  editor 
or  an  assistant  city  editor  or  some  thing  of  the 
kind  and  given  an  executive  position  as  a  re- 
ward of  merit.  Usually  he  is  glad  to  take  it, 
for  it  means  more  salary.     That  knocks  the 


224  THE   MAKING    OF   A 

writing  out  of  him.  He  is  too  busy  to  write, 
and  a  man  who  would  have  made  a  good  re- 
porter is  turned  into  a  mediocre  desk  man. 

Desk  men  are  all  right  in  their  way — the 
papers  have  to  have  them.  But  the  man  who 
has  it  in  him  to  make  a  good  reporter  rarely 
makes  much  of  an  executive.  Such  work  re- 
quires a  different  kind  of  brains.  The  great 
geniuses  in  the  newspaper  business  are  the  men 
who  have  both  kinds  of  brains.  They  are  not 
so  common.  Still,  if  you  go  over  the  country 
and  pick  out  the  great  executives,  the  big  man- 
aging editors,  you  will  find  that  every  last  one 
of  them  at  some  time  was  a  reporter,  and  a  good 
one.  Conversely,  there  are  on  editorial  desks 
in  this  country  scores  of  men  who  would  have 
been  good  reporters  and  would  have  developed 
into  excellent  writing  men,  who  are  giving  out 
assignments  and  running  papers  and  only  mak- 
ing an  ordinary  fist  at  it. 

I  recognize  the  great  worth  of  the  capable 
city  editor,  and  managing  editor,  and  news 
editor.    I  admit  that  the  good  reporter  would  be 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  225 

worthless  without  him  to  handle  the  copy,  to  fit 
it  in,  to  realize  its  value  or  lack  of  value.  The 
good  editor  complements  the  good  reporter. 
One  is  essential  to  the  other.  What  I  do  think 
is  that  for  the  man  who  has  no  capital  but  his 
brains  the  better  end  of  the  newspaper  busi- 
ness is  the  writing  end,  not  the  executive  end. 
Passing  by  all  the  rewards  that  may  come  to 
the  executive,  to  the  great  editor,  I  still  hold' 
that  for  a  career,  for  a  satisfactory  and  satis- 
fying business,  the  writer  has  the  better  of  it 
when  you  take  a  large  view  of  the  situation. 

By  the  ''better  end"  of  the  business  I  mean 
that  the  writer  who  is  as  good  as  a  writer  as 
the  executive  is  as  an  executive,  or  compara- 
tively so,  can  get  almost  as  much  money  and 
can  be  much  happier;  have  a  much  wider  ex- 
perience, have  a  heap  more  fun,  live  a  more 
pleasant  life,  know  more  people,  see  more 
things,  get  more  reputation  and  beat  him  a 
dozen  other  ways.  The  mistake  the  young  re- 
porter makes  is  in  trying  to  get  a  desk  for  the 
vain  privilege  of  having  a  title,  some  evanes- 

tS— Newspaper  Man. 


226  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

cent  authority  and  a  few  more  dollars  a  week 
at  the  start,  and  I  made  that  mistake  myself. 
That  is  the  reporter's  usual  ambition.  The 
young  man  thinks  he  is  getting  on  when  he  is 
made  assistant  city  editor,  or  city  editor,  or 
dramatic  editor,  or  some  other  kind  of  an 
editor;  whereas,  if  he  is  a  writer,  if  he  has  it 
in  him  to  learn  to  write,  he  is  really  going  back- 
ward instead  of  forward. 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  227 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

Newspaper  work  is  divided  into  two  parts: 
the  writing  end  and  the  executive  end — that  is, 
of  course,  on  the  editorial  side.  Many  editorial 
desks  in  this  country  are  cluttered  up  with  men 
who  should  be  writers  and  many  men  are  try- 
ing to  write  who  should  be  executives.  The 
diflBculty  is  to  sort  them  out.  The  place  where 
so  many  young  reporters  fail  is  in  not  trying 
to  learn  to  write,  but  grabbing  a  desk  when  the 
chance  comes  to  them  and  trying  to  make  other 
men  write.  Learning  to  write  is  hard  work. 
It  takes  years  to  perfect  the  good  writing  me- 
chanic. I  do  not  care  how  much  imagination, 
how  much  facility  of  expression,  how  many  ideas 
a  man  may  have,  he  wastes  seventy-five  per 
cent,  of  his  effectiveness  unless  he  has  learned 
his  trade.  After  he  has  learned  it  is  when  his 
imagination,    his    facility    of    expression,    his 


228  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

knowledge  of  words,  his  assortment  of  ideas 
come  in,  and  make  him  not  only  a  good  writer 
but  a  great  writer. 

There  are  hundreds  of  men  writing  for  news- 
papers in  this  country  who  are  not  writing  so 
well  as  they  might.  Indeed,  it  is  held  by  many 
critics  that  our  newspaper  writing  is  not  so 
good  as  it  was.  That  may  or  may  not  be  true, 
but  if  it  is  true  it  is  because  the  men  who  are 
in  the  direction  of  the  newspapers  haven't  it 
in  them  to  teach  these  undeveloped  writers  their 
business.  Besides,  the  newspapers  of  this  coun- 
try are  in  a  way  becoming  standardized.  There 
isn't  so  much  individuality  as  there  used  to  be. 
This  is  due  to  a  multiplicity  of  causes,  but  chiefly 
to  the  perfection  of  the  news-gathering  facilities 
and  resources  and  methods  of  the  great  press 
associations  that  are  the  backbone  of  the  news- 
paper. Last  fall,  as  I  was  coming  across  Wis- 
consin, I  was  told  of  a  place  up  in  the  woods 
where  an  outlaw  was  fighting  for  a  dam  he  had 
built  and  was  holding  up  a  big  posse.  It  was 
a  big,  human-interest  story.    It  is  quite  likely 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  229 

that  ten  years  ago  I  should  have  been  sent  on 
that  story,  and  if  I  had  been,  I  could  have  called, 
within  one  or  two,  the  names  of  the  men  from 
other  papers  I  should  have  met  there.  I  asked 
who  was  up  there,  and  was  told  the  Chicago 
papers  had  sent  up  a  man  apiece  and  that  the 
other  papers  were  relying  on  the  press  asso- 
ciations. 

This  may  be  an  argument  against  newspaper 
work  as  a  career.  I  don 't  think  it  is,  but  it  may 
be.  In  spite  of  standardizing  the  papers,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  big  newspapers  of  this 
country  are  coming  to  be  more  and  more  in- 
tensely local  and  somewhat  provincial,  I  still 
think  there  is  no  better  career  in  this  country 
for  a  young  man  who  has  an  aptitude  for  it 
than  newspaper  work.  If  you  can  do  big  work 
you  will  get  big  work  to  do. 

To  get  back  to  the  executive  end  of  newspaper 
work.  On  the  larger  papers  all  the  big  salaries, 
or  most  of  them,  are  paid  to  the  men  who  direct 
the  papers.  The  chaps  with  the  executive  brains 
draw  down  the  money.    Notwithstanding  tnat, 


230  THE   MAKING   OF   A 

the  writing  man  can  beat  them — and  the  real 
writing  man  does.  He  may  not  get  so  much 
money  on  the  newspaper  as  the  managing  editor 
does,  but  he  has  a  hundred  times  the  oppor- 
tunity. Think  of  what  it  means!  If  you  de- 
velop yourself  on  a  newspaper  to  be  a  good 
writer,  if  you  get  the  reputation,  as  you  surely 
will,  you  have  the  world  by  the  tail,  for  it  isn't 
necessary  to  remain  with  a  newspaper.  The 
whole  field  of  literature  is  yours.  You  have 
learned  your  trade.  You  can  go  out  and  do 
what  you  please,  where  you  please,  and  there 
will  be  no  lack  of  a  market.  But  if  you  are  a 
managing  editor  and  have  not  developed  the 
writing  side,  you  must  remain  a  managing  editor 
until,  in  the  inevitable  course  of  events  in  a 
newspaper  office,  you  are  shoved  back  by  the 
advent  of  some  younger  man  with  newer  ideas 
and  more  vim  than  you  have,  and  there  is  the 
beginning  of  the  end.  I  can  point  out  to  you 
in  this  country  scores  of  men  who  once  held 
high  editorial  positions  and  are  now  in  minor 
ones;   but  show  me  the  writing  man  who  is  in 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  231 

c 

health  who,  having  reached  as  high  a  place  as 
a  writer  as  these  men  did  as  executives,  has 
suffered  such  reverses — not  because  of  old  age 
or  infirmity,  but  because  he  has  lost  his  market. 

I  am  not  speaking  about  geniuses.  There 
have  been  only  a  few  literary  geniuses  in  this 
country  and  they  are  all  dead.  I  mean  good, 
skillful  workmen.  "Why  is  it  that  in  periodical 
literature,  for  example,  the  same  names  are  con- 
stantly recurring  in  the  tables  of  contents  ?  Not 
because  of  office  favoritism,  as  many  amateurs 
hold,  but  because  these  are  men  who  have 
learned  their  business.  They  know  how  to  write. 
They  can  take  an  idea  and  make  out  of  it  the 
kind  of  a  story  the  editor  wants.  It  is  the  same 
in  architecture,  in  medicine,  in  the  law,  in  any 
other  line  of  endeavor.  The  men  who  do  the 
big  work  are  the  men  who  know  how  to  do  it. 
They  had  talent  to  begin  with,  of  course;  but 
they  developed  that  talent  by  hard  work  and 
painstaking  application  of  it. 

One  reason  why  the  newspaper  business  is 
not  a  good  business,  seemingly,  is  because  so 


232  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

many  men  and  women  go  into  it  as  a  makeshift 
and  because  so  many  persons  who  have  failed 
elsewhere  adopt  it,  or  have  it  adopt  them,  be- 
cause "it  is  so  easy  to  write."  It  certainly  has 
allurements  at  the  start.  A  bright,  capable 
young  fellow  who  can  see  things  and  tell  about 
them  can,  in  a  few  years,  so  far  as  reportorial 
worth  goes,  be  as  valuable  to  the  paper  as  the 
much  older  man  who  has  spent  years  in  the  serv- 
ice. Moreover,  he  can  earn  more  money — at 
the  start,  mind  you — than  his  colleague  who 
studied  law  or  medicine,  or  went  into  a  bank  or 
into  a  clerkship,  or  anything  like  that.  It 
doesn't  take  long  for  a  bright  young  chap  in 
any  kind  of  a  city  at  all  to  earn  twenty  or 
twenty-five  dollars  a  week.  He  can  do  it  in  a 
year  or  two,  no  matter  how  penurious  his  owner 
or  editor  may  be,  or  get  it  somewhere  else.  How 
many  young  lawyers  or  young  doctors  can  earn 
a  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  doUars  in  the  first 
year  or  two  of  their  practice!  Not  one  half  of 
one  per  cent,  of  all  those  who  start. 

The  difficulty  is  that  the  advancement,  at  first 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  233 

so  rapid,  gets  painfully  slow,  and  after  a  cer- 
tain point  is  reached  experience  counts  for  noth- 
ing. That  is  what  makes  the  average  reporter 
think  and  say  that  his  business  is  no  good.  The 
trouble  isn't  with  the  business,  it  is  with  him. 
If  he  was  good  enough  to  make  a  flying  start 
and  go  along  rapidly  he  is  good  enough  to  go 
as  far  as  he  likes  if  he  will  take  the  trouble 
to  learn.  Not  many  of  them  do.  They  are 
content  with  the  first  results,  and  fall  into  the 
rut  that  sooner  or  later  will  lead  them  to  the 
exchange  table  or,  if  they  get  out,  to  the  political 
job,  the  private  secretaryship,  the  press  agent  ^s 
place,  or  to  some  other  similar  line  of  work. 
They  yelp  about  the  lack  of  reward  in  the  busi- 
ness and  do  not  try  to  develop  their  own 
capacities. 

I  am  not  saying  that  every  man  or  that  even 
one  tenth  of  the  men  going  into  newspaper  work 
can  learn  to  write  well,  but  I  am  saying  that 
not  one  tenth  of  the  men  who  do  go  into  it  with 
that  latent  talent  do  so  develop  themselves. 
*' Sufficient  unto  the  day"  is  the  motto  that  is 


234  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

the  curse  of  the  young  reporter.  He  is  getting 
along  swimmingly.  He  has  good  work  and  good 
pay.  He  does  not  progress.  At  the  end  of  his 
fifth  year  he  is  not  writing  much  better  than 
he  was  at  the  epd  of  his  first  year,  when  some 
of  the  knobs  had  been  knocked  off  him  by  his 
editors  and  copy-readers.  He  spends  his  time 
sitting  round  and  deploring  his  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity in  his  calling,  instead  of  making  a  few 
opportunities  for  himself. 

The  life  tends  to  that.  A  reporter,  by  the 
necessities  of  his  business,  is  constantly  thrown 
in  contact  with  the  big  men  of  his  city.  Un- 
consciously he  arrogates  to  himself  the  habits 
of  mind  and,  perhaps,  the  habits  of  living  of 
those  men.  He  considers  himself  as  good  as 
they  are — and  usually  he  is — but  he  lacks  the 
income.  He  gets  into  an  inflated  style  of  living 
and  blows  up.  It  is  at  best  a  happy-go-lucky 
sort  of  a  life,  but  the  happiest  in  it  are  those 
who  do  not  pin  too  much  faith  on  the  luck  end. 

Another  trouble  with  the  newspaper  game  is 
the  jealousy  of  the  men  in  it.    A  gathering  of 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  235 

newspaper  men  is  like  a  gathering  of  soubrettes 
— few  people  in  it  can  see  anybody  but  them- 
selves. If  any  man  sticks  his  head  above  the 
universal  level  of  the  grass  in  which  all  are 
traveling  they  all  take  a  clout  at  that  head. 
Almost  all  praise  is  given  grudgingly.  You'd 
think  to  hear  them  talk  that  any  man  who  does 
a  big  story  well  did  it  well  by  accident,  and  not 
by  any  means  so  well  as  it  would  have  been  done 
had  the  speaker  had  the  chance.  They  are  the 
greatest  gossips  in  the  world,  which  is  natural, 
for  their  business  is  to  find  out  things  about 
people  and  they  cannot  print  half  they  find  out. 
Then,  too,  their  mode  of  life  is  irregular  and 
they  are  a  sort  of  people  by  themselves,  for 
if  there  is  any  one  thing  the  ordinary  person 
is  mystified  about  it  is  the  making  of  a  news- 
paper. 

Admitting  all  this — admitting  that  newspaper 
work  is  disaiDpointing  in  its  rewards ;  that  it  is 
essentially  an  occupation  for  young  men;  that 
men  who  get  old  in  it  are  likely  to  be  shoved 
aside;   that  the  pay  is  not  commensurate  with 


236  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

the  labor  and  the  intelligence  required;  that 
reputation  secured  in  it  is  temporary ;  that  the 
grind  saps  strength ;  that  the  life  has  a  tendency 
to  invite  the  forming  of  ruinous  habits ;  that  it 
deprives  its  follower  of  an  opportunity  for  social 
enjoyment;  that  young  men  become  old  in  it 
quickly  and  that  old  men  become  useless;  that 
a  single  mistake  may  mean  the  loss  of  a  posi- 
tion; that  business-office  rules  may  prevent 
truth-telling;  that  special  interests  may  have 
to  be  conserv^ed ;  that  it  is  the  hardest  work  on 
earth — I  still  contend  that  newspaper  work  in 
his  country  offers  an  exceptional  advantage  to 
the  young  man  who  has  an  aptitude  for  it. 

By  aptitude  for  it  I  do  not  mean  an  abnor- 
mally endowed  nose  for  news — ^most  of  that  sort 
of  thing  is  fake  anyhow — or  a  tremendous  talent 
for  writing.  What  I  mean  is  that  a  young  man, 
to  make  a  success  of  it,  must  have  the  strength 
of  will  to  work  unceasingly  hard  for  years, 
strength  of  character  enough  to  keep  his  habits 
reasonably  within  bounds,  and  strength  of  de- 
termination enough  to  go  at  his  business  with 


NEWSPAPER   MAN  237 

the  desire  to  learn  it  thoroughly,  not  take  it 
slap-dash  and,  for  that  reason,  after  he  has 
slap-dashed  himself  out,  remain  at  the  thirty 
or  forty  dollar  level. 

No  matter  how  good  he  is,  he  will  never  get 
rich  at  it ;  that  side  of  the  business  may  as  well 
be  dismissed  from  the  mind.  But  he  will  live 
a  life  that  is  full  of  interest;  he  will  see  all 
there  is  to  be  seen,  meet  all  worth  meeting ;  be 
a  part  of  all  great  affairs ;  exert  a  weighty  in- 
fluence through  his  reporting ;  have  a  potential 
power  he  never  will  realize,  but  which  will  be 
there  just  the  same;  have  more  fun  and  get 
enough  to  live  well  on;  and,  if  he  has  applied 
himself  to  the  mechanics  of  his  business,  has 
stored  in  his  mind  the  fruits  of  his  experiences, 
has  conserved  the  acquaintances  and  friendships 
he  has  made,  will  be  ready  to  stand  aside  for 
the  younger  man  when  he  can  no  longer  com- 
pete with  the  dash  of  youth  and  step  immedi- 
ately into  a  wider  and  more  profitable  and,  if 
possible,  more  useful  field. 

The  fault  isn't  with  the  newspaper  business — 


238  THE   MAKING   OF  A 

it  is  with  the  men  in  it.  The  rewards  are  there, 
just  as  certainly  as  they  are  in  banking  or  in 
any  profession ;  not  so  munificent,  perhaps,  but 
big  enough  to  satisfy  any  one,  and  the  life  is 
so  much  more  interesting,  so  much  more  varied, 
the  perspective  is  so  much  greater,  the  view  is 
so  much  broader  that  the  compensations  are 
more  than  adequate.  If  you  want  money  keep 
out.  It  isn't  in  the  game.  But  if  you  want  ex- 
perience, to  know  life  in  all  its  phases,  to  know 
men  and  either  make  or  destroy  them,  to  be 
in  touch  with  what  is  happening,  go  in. 

Moreover,  it  is  a  better  business,  a  cleaner 
business  than  it  was.  The  old  days  of  the 
frowsy,  alleged-bohemian,  drunken  reporter  and 
editor  have  passed.  The  present-day  reporter 
is  an  honorable,  clean,  self-respecting  man, 
working  honorably  and  cleanly.  There  is  no 
business  in  this  country  where  so  much  for  the 
public  good  can  be  done  and  is  done. 

In  my  opinion  newspaper  work  offers  better 
opportunities,  aside  from  the  accumulation  of 
money,  for  real,  serviceable,  result-getting  labor 


NEWSPAPER  MAN  239 

than  any  other  business  or  profession  a  young 
man  may  choose.  Since  I  secured  my  first  place, 
twenty-five  years  ago,  the  standards  of  the  men 
in  it,  and  also  of  the  newspapers,  have  im- 
measurably improved.  They  will  keep  improv- 
ing. The  work  is  hard,  the  pay  is  not  large, 
but  the  advantages  are  many  and  the  oppor- 
tunities are  waiting. 


The  End 


HENRY    ALTEMUS    COMPANY'S 

CATALOGUE  OF 

The  Best  and  Least  Expensive 

Books  for  Real  Boys 

and  Girls 


Really  good  and  new  stories  for  boys  and  girls  are  not 
plentiful.  Many  stories,  too,  are  so  highly  improbable  as 
to  bring  a  grin  of  derision  to  the  young  reader's  face  be- 
fore he  has  gone  far.  The  name  of  ALTEMUS  is  a  dis- 
tinctive brand  on  the  cover  of  a  book,  always  ensuring 
the  buyer  of  having  a  book  that  is  up-to-date  and  fine 
throughout.  No  buyer  of  an  ALTEMUS  book  is  ever 
disappointed. 

Many  are  the  claims  made  as  to  the  inexpensiveness 
of  books.  Go  into  any  bookstore  and  ask  for  an  Altemus 
book.  Compare  the  price  charged  you  for  Altemus 
books  with  the  price  demanded  for  other  juvenile  books. 
You  will  at  once  discover  that  a  given  outlay  of  money 
will  buy  more  of  the  ALTEMUS  books  than  of  those 
published  by  other  houses. 

Every  dealer  in  books  carries  the  ALTEMUS  books. 


Sold     by     all     booksellers    or    sent    postpaid    on    receipt     of     price 

Henry    Altemus    Company 

1326-1336     Vine      Street,      Philadelphia 


The   Motor    Boat    Club    Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

The  keynote  of  these  books  is  manliness.  The  stories  are  wonder- 
fully entertaining,  and  they  are  at  the  same  time  sound  and  whole- 
some. No  boy  will  willingly  lay  down  an  unfinished  book  in  this 
series. 

1  THE  MOTOR  BOAT  CLUB  OF  THE  KENNEBEC;    Or,  The 

Secret  of  Smugglers'  Island. 

2  THE  MOTOR  BOAT  CLUB  AT  NANTUCKET ;    Or,  The  Mys- 

tery of  the  Dunstan  Heir. 

3  THE  MOTOR  BOAT  CLUB  OFF  LONG  ISLAND ;    Or,  A  Dar- 

ing Marine  Game  at  Racing  Speed. 

4  THE  MOTOR  BOAT  CLUB  AND  THE  WIRELESS ;    Or,  The 

Dot,  Dash  and  Dare  Cruise. 

5  THE   MOTOR   BOAT   CLUB    IN   FLORIDA;     Or,   Laying  the 

Ghost  of  Alligator  Swamp. 

6  THE  MOTOR  BOAT  CLUB  AT  THE  GOLDEN  GATE ;    Or,  A 

Thrilling  Capture  in  the  Great  Fog. 

7  THE  MOTOR  BOAT  CLUB  ON  THE  GREAT  LAKES;    Or, 

The  Flying  Dutchman  of  the  Big  Fresh  Water. 

Qoth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


The  Range  and  Grange  Hustlers 

By  FRANK  GEE  PATCHIN 

Have  you  any  idea  of  the  excitements,  the  glories  of  life  on  great 
ranches  in  the  West?  Any  bright  boy  will  "devour"  the  books  of 
this  series,  once  he  has  riade  a  start  with  the  first  volume. 

1  THE  RANGE  AND    GRANGE  HUSTLERS  ON  THE  RANCH; 

Or,  The  Boy  Shep  ierds  of  the  Great  Divide. 

2  THE  RANGE  AN  J)  GRANGE  HUSTLERS'  GREATEST 

ROUND-UP;     Oi,    Pitting    Their    Wits    Against   a    Packers' 
Combine. 

3  THE  RANGE  AND   jRANGE  HUSTLERS  ON  THE  PLAINS; 

Or,  Following  the.  Steam  Plows  Across  the  Prairie. 

4  THE    RANGE    ANE    GRANGE    HUSTLERS    AT   CHICAGO; 

Or,  The  Conspiraty  of  the  Wheat  Pit. 

Qoth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


Submarine    Boys    Series 

By  VICTOR  G.  DURHAM 

1  THE   SUBMARINE   BOYS   ON  DUTY;   Or,   Life  on  a  Diving  Torpedo 

Boat. 

2  THE    SUBMARINE    BOYS'    TRIAL    TRIP;    Or,     "Haking    Good"    as 

Young  Experts. 

3  THE  SUBMARINE  BOYS  AND  THE  MIDDIES;  Or,   The  Prize  Detail 

at  Annapolis. 

4  THE  SUBMARINE  BOYS  AND  THE  SPIES;   Or.  Dodging  the  SharltT 

of  the  Deep. 

.5    THE    SUBMARINE    BOYS'    LIGHTNING    CRUISE;    Or,    The    Youjig 
Kings  of  the  Deep. 

«    THE  SUBMARINE  BOYS  FOR  THE  FLAG;  Or.   Deeding  Their  Lives 
to  Uncle  Sam. 

7    THE  SUBMARINE  BOYS  AND  THE  SMUGGLERS;  Or.  Breaking  Up 
the  New  Jersey  Customs  Frauds. 


The  Square  Dollar  Boys  Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

1    THE  SQUARE  DOLLAR  BOYS  WAKE  UP;  Or,   Fighting  the  Trolley 
Franchise  Steal. 

3    THE  SQUARE  DOLLAR  BOYS  SMASH  THE  RING;   Or.  In  the  Lists 
Against  the  Crooked  Land  Deal. 


The   College   Girls   Series 

By  JESSIE  GRAHAM  FLOWER,  A.M. 

1  GRACE  HARLOWE'S  FIRST  YEAR  AT  OVERTON  COLLEGE. 

2  GRACE  HARLOWE'S  SECOND  YEAR  AT  OVERTON  COLLEGE. 

3  GRACE  HARLOWE'S  THIRD  YEAR  AT  OVERTON  COLLEGE. 

4  GRACE  HARLOWE'S  FOURTH  YEAR  AT  OVERTON  COLLEGE. 

5  GRACE  HARLOWE'S  RETURN  TO  OVERTON  CAMPUS. 


Dave    Darrin    Series 

By  H    IRVING  HANCOCK 

1    DAVE    DARRIN    AT    VERA    CRUZ;    Or.    Fighting    With    the    U.    S. 
Navy  in  Mexico. 


All  these  books  are  bound  m  Cloth  and  will  be  sent  post- 
paid on  receipt  of  only  50  cents  each. 


Pony   Rider    Boys   Series 

By  FRANK  GEE  PATCHIN 

These  tales  may  be  aptly  described  the  best  books  for  boys  and  girls. 

1  THE  PONY  RIDER  BOYS  IN  THE  ROCKIES;  Or,  The  Secret  of  the 
Lost  Claim.— 2  THE  PONY  RIDER  BOYS  IN  TEXAS;  Or,  The 
Veiled  Riddle  of  the  Plains.— 3  THE  PONY  RIDER  BOYS  IN 
MONTANA;  Or,  The  Mystery  of  the  Old  Custer  Trail.— 4  THE 
PONY  RIDER  BOYS  IN  THE  OZARKS;  Or,  The  Secret  of  Ruby 
Mountain.— 5  THE  PONY  RIDER  BOYS  IN  THE  ALKALI;  Or, 
Finding  a  Key  to  the  Desert  Maze.— 6  THE  PONY  RIDER  BOYS 
IN  NEW  MEXICO;  Or,  The  End  of  the  Silver  Trail.— 7  THE  PONY 
RIDER  BOYS  IN  THE  GRAND  CANYON;  Or,  The  Mystery  of 
Bright  Angel  Gulch. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


The  Boys  of  Steel  Series 

By  JAMES  R.  MEARS 

Each  book  presents  vivid  picture  of  this  great  industry.     Each  story 
is  full  of  adventure  and  fascination. 

1  THE  IRON  BOYS  IN  THE  MINES;  Or,  Starting  at  the  Bottom  of 
the  Shaft.— 2  THE  IRON  BOYS  AS  FOREMEN;  Or.  Heading  the 
Diamond  Drill  Shift.— 3  THE  IRON  BOYS  ON  THE  ORE  BOATS: 
Or,  Roughing  It  on  the  Great  Lakes.— 4  THE  IRON  BOYS  IN  THE 
STEEL  MILLS;   Or,   Beginning  Anew  in  the  Cinder  Pita. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


The  Madge  Morton  Books 

By  AMY  D.  V.  CHALMERS 

1  MADGE  MORTON— CAPTAIN   OF   THE   MERRY   MAID. 

a  MADGE  MORTON'S  SECRET. 

3  MADGE  MORTON'S   TRUST. 

4  MADGE  MORTON'S  VICTORY. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


West     Point     Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

The   principal    characters   in    these    narratives   are   manly,    youn^ 
Americans  whose  doings  will  inspire  all  boy  readers. 

1  DICK   PRESCOTT'S   FIRST   YEAR  AT   WEST   POINT;    Or, 

Two  Chums  in  the  Cadet  Gray. 

2  DICK  PRESCOTT'S  SECOND  YEAR  AT  WEST  POINT;    Or, 

Finding  the  Glory  of  the  Soldier's  Life. 

3  DICK   PRESCOTT'S  THIRD   YEAR  AT  WEST  POINT;    Or, 

Standing  Firm  for  Flag  and  Honor. 

4  DICK  PRESCOTT'S  FOURTH  YEAR  AT  WEST  POINT;    Or. 

Ready  to  Drop  the  Gray  for  Shoulder  Straps. 

Qoth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


Annapolis      Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

The  Spirit  of  the  new  Navy  is  delightfully  and  truthfully  depicted 
in  these  volumes. 

1  DAVE  DARRIN'S  FIRST  YEAR  AT  ANNAPOLIS;    Or.  Two 

Plebe  Midshipmen  at  the  U.  S.  Naval  Academy. 

2  DAVE    DARRIN'S    SECOND    YEAR   AT   ANNAPOLIS;     Or, 

Two  Midshipmen  as  Naval  Academy  "Youngsters." 

3  DAVE  DARRIN'S  THIRD  YEAR  AT  ANNAPOLIS;   Or,  Lead- 

ers of  the  Second  Class  Midshipmen. 

4  DAVE  DARRIN'S  FOURTH  YEAR  AT  ANNAPOLIS;  Or, 

Headed  for  Graduation  and  the  Big  Cruise. 

Qoth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


The  Young  Engineers  Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

The  heroes  of  these  stories  are  known  to  readers  of  the  High 
School  Boys  Series.  In  this  new  series  Tom  Reade  and  Harry 
Hazelton  prove  worthy  of  all  the  traditions  of  Dick  &  Co. 

1  THE  YOUNG  ENGINEERS  IN  COLORADO ;    Or,  At  Railroad 

Building  in  Earnest. 

2  THE  YOUNG  ENGINEERS  IN  ARIZONA ;    Or,  Laying  Tracks 

on  the  "Man-Killer"  Quicksand. 

3  THE  YOUNG  ENGINEERS   IN   NEVADA;    Or,   Seeking  For- 

tune on  the  Turn  of  a  Pick. 

4  THE   YOUNG   ENGINEERS   IN    MEXICO;     Or,   Fighting  the 

Mine  Swindlers. 

Qoth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


Boys   of   the   Army   Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

These  books  breathe  the  life  and  spirit  of  the  United  States  Army 
of  to-day,  and  the  life,  just  as  it  is,  is  described  by  a  master  pen. 

1  UNCLE  SAM'S  BOYS  IN  THE  RANKS;    Or,  Two  Recruits  in 

the  United  States  Army. 

2  UNCLE  SAM'S  BOYS  ON  FIELD  DUTY;    Or,  Winning  Cor- 

poral's Chevrons. 

3  UNCLE  SAM'S  BOYS  AS  SERGEANTS ;    Or,  Handling  Their 

First  Real  Commands. 

4  UNCLE  SAM'S   BOYS  IN  THE  PHILIPPINES;    Or,  Follow- 

ing the  Flag  Against  the  Moros. 

(Otiier  volumes  to  follow  rapidly.) 

Ooth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


Battleship    Boys    Series 

By  FRANK  GEE  PATCHIN 

These  stories  throb  with  the  life  of  young  Americans  on  to-day's 
huge  drab  Dreadnaughts. 

1  THE  BATTLESHIP  BOYS  AT  SEA;    Or,  Two  Apprentices  in 

Uncle  Sam's  Navy. 

2  THE    BATTLESHIP    BOYS     FIRST    STEP    UPWARD;     Or, 

Winning  Their  Grades  as  Petty  Officers. 

3  THE    BATTLESHIP    BOYS    IN    FOREIGN    SERVICE;    Or, 

Earning  New  Ratings  in  European  Seas. 

4  THE  BATTLESHIP  BOYS   IN  THE  TROPICS;    Or,  Uphold- 

ing the  American  Flag  in  a  Honduras  Revolution. 
{Other  volumes  to  follow  rapidly.) 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


The  Meadow-Brook  Girls  Series 

By  JANET  ALDRIDGE 

Real  live  stories  pulsing  with  the  vibrant  atmosphere'  of  outdoor 
life. 

1  THE   MEADOW-BROOK   GIRLS  UNDER   CANVAS. 

2  THE    MEADOW-BROOK   GIRLS   ACROSS    COUNTRY. 

3  THE    MEADOW-BROOK    GIRLS    AFLOAT. 

4  THE   MEADOW-BROOK  GIRLS  IN  THE  HILLS. 
6    THE   MEADOW-BROOK  GIRLS   BY  THE   SEA. 

6    THE  MEADOW-BROOK  GIRLS  ON  THE  TENNIS  COURTS. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


High    School    Boys    Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

In  this  series  of  bright,  crisp  books  a  new  note  has  been  struck. 
Boys  of  every  age  under  sixty  will  be  interested  in  these  fascinat- 
ing volumes. 

1  THE   HIGH    SCHOOL   FRESHMEN;     Or,   Dick  &   Co.'s   First 

Year  Pranks  and  Sports. 

2  THE    HIGH    SCHOOL    PITCHER;     Or,    Dick   &    Co.    on    the 

Gridley  Diamond. 

3  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL  LEFT  END ;    Or.  Dick  &  Co.  Grilling  on 

the  Football  Gridiron. 

4  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  TEAM;   Or,  Dick  & 

Co.  Leading  the  Athletic  Vanguard. 

Goth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


Grammar   School    Boys    Series 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

This   series  of   stories,   based   on   the   actual   doings   of   grammar 
school  boys,  comes  near  to  the  heart  of  the  average  American  boy. 

1  THE   GRAMMAR   SCHOOL  BOYS   OF  GRIDLEY;    Or,   Dick 

&  Co.  Start  Things  Moving. 

2  THE  GRAMMAR  SCHOOL  BOYS  SNOWBOUND;    Or,  Dick 

&  Co.  at  Winter  Sports. 

3  THE    GRAMMAR    SCHOOL    BOYS    IN    THE   WOODS;     Or, 

Dick  &  Co.  Trail  Fun  and  Knowledge. 

4  THE  GRAMMAR  SCHOOL  BOYS  IN  SUMMER  ATHLETICS; 

Or,  Dick  &  Co.  Make  Their  Fame  Secure. 
Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 

HighSchoolBoys'VacationSeries 

By  H.  IRVING  HANCOCK 

"Give  us  more  Dick  Prescott  books!" 

This  has  been  the  burden  of  the  cry  from  young  readers  of  the 
country  over.  Almost  numberless  letters  have  been  received  by  the 
publishers,  making  this  eager  demand  ;  for  Dick  Prescott,  Dave  Dar- 
rin,  Tom  Reade,  and  the  other  members  of  Dick  &  Co.  are  the  most 
popular  high  school  boys  in  the  land.  Boys  will  alternately  thrill 
and  chuckle  when  reading  these  splendid  narratives. 
I     THE  HIGH  SCHOOL  BOYS'  CANOE  CLUB  ;    Or,  Dick  &  Co.'s 

Rivals  on  Lake  Pleasant.  

3     THE  HIGH   SCHOOL  BOYS  IN   SUMMER   CAMP;    Or,  The 
Dick  Prescott  Six  Training  for  the  Gridley  Eleven. 

3  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL  BOYS'  FISHING  TRIP;    Or,  Dick  &  Co. 

in  the  Wilderness. 

4  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL  BOYS'  TRAINING  HIKE;    Or,  Dick  & 

Co.  Making  Themselves  "Hard  as  Nails." 

Ooth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


The  Circus   Boys  Series 

By  EDGAR  B.  P.  DARLINGTON 

Mr.  Darlington's  books  breathe  forth  every  phase  of  an  intensely 
interesting  and  exciting  life. 

1  THE  CIRCUS  BOYS  ON  THE  FLYING  RINGS;    Or,  Making 

the  Start  in  the  Sawdust  Life. 

2  THE  CIRCUS  BOYS  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT;    Or,  Win- 

ning New  Laurels  on  the  Tanbark. 

3  THE    CIRCUS    BOYS    IN    DIXIE    LAND;     Or,    Winning   the 

Plaudits  of  the  Sunny  South. 

4  THE  CIRCUS  BOYS  ON  THE  MISSISSIPPI;    Or,  Afloat  with 

the  Big  Show  on  the  Big  River. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 

The   High  School  Girls  Series 

By  JESSIE  GRAHAM  FLOWER,  A.  M. 

These  breezy  stories  of  the  American  High  School  Girl  take  the 
reader  fairly  by  storm. 

1  GRACE    HARLOWE'S    PLEBE    YEAR   AT    HIGH    SCHOOL; 

Or,  The  Merry  Doings  of  the  Oakdale  Freshman  Girls. 

2  GRACE     HARLOWE'S      SOPHOMORE     YEAR     AT     HIGH 

SCHOOL;    Or,  The  Record  of  the  Girl  Chums  in  Work  and 
Athletics. 

3  GRACE  HARLOWE'S  JUNIOR  YEAR  AT  HIGH   SCHOOL; 

Or,  Fast  Friends  in  the  Sororities. 

4  GRACE   HARLOWE'S   SENIOR  YEAR  AT  HIGH   SCHOOL; 

Or,  The  Parting  of  the  Ways. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 

The    Automobile    Girls    Series 

By  LAURA  DENT  CRANE 

No  girl's  library — no  family  book-case  can  bg  considered  at  all 
complete  unless  it  contains  these  sparkling  twentieth-centuo'  books. 
1  THE  AUTOMOBILE  GIRLS  AT  NEWPORT;  Or,  Watching  the  Sum- 
mer Parade.— 2  THE  AUTOMOBILE  GIRLS  IN  THE  BERKSHIRES; 
Or.  The  Ghost  of  Lost  Man's  Trail.— 3  THE  AUTOMOBILE  GIRLS 
-VLONG  THE  HUDSON:  Or,  Fighting  Fire  in  Sleepy  Hollow.— 
4  THE  AUTOMOBILE  GIRLS  AT  CHICAGO;  Or,  Winning  Out 
Against  Heavy  Odds.— 6  THE  AUTOMOBILE  GIRLS  AT  PALM 
BEACH;  Or.  Proving  Their  Mettle  Under  Southern  Skies.— 6  THE 
AUTOMOBILE  GIRLS  AT  WASHINGTON;  Or,  Checkmating  the 
Plots  of  Foreign  Spies. 

Cloth,  Illustrated  Price,  per  Volume,  50c. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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